The Chronicles of Kaer Marter
by Fainmaca
Summary: In the ancient elven castle of Kaer Marter, the Witcher School of the Cat gathers to train its newest adepts. These are the tales of one such gathering, as witnessed first hand by the apprentice Frederick of Asheberg.
1. Chapter 1

_These are the chronicles of Kaer Marter, home to the Witcher School of the Cat, as told by the Witcher apprentice, Frederick of Asheberg._

The night air was still, motionless save for the shimmering heat of the dozen or so torches that encircled the courtyard of The castle and the heavy breathing of several dozen youngsters, all standing in haphazard lines on the cracked and worn stone slabs. Before them, rearing up into the shadows of the night like some primordial creature risen from the depths of the soil, stood the imposing bulk of Kaer Marter. Once an elven palace of impassable beauty, the weight of time and tragedy rested heavily upon its eaves, the tall and elegant spires and towers dark with grim knowledge of misdeeds past. This was no longer a place of culture and grace. Now, it was the abode of blood and magic, of peril and fire. The home of the ones called Witchers.

The foreboding aura of the castle was not lost on the newly recruited students gathered before it, waiting with tense dread for its inhabitants to reveal themselves. The unknown creatures who would come forth to claim them as their students.

In the midst of the throng, a fresh-faced youth glanced all about, anxiety thrumming through every fibre of his being. A shock of russet hair adorned his head, cut roughly by a village barber for no more than a few pennies. Beneath his brows, eyes of blue and green stared out at the world, taking in every detail with awe. A black shirt was draped across his portly form, matching trousers several sizes too large for him cascading down to pool around his feet awkwardly, obscuring the black leather boots he wore. A gambeson, much too small for him, awkwardly curled around his generous paunch, straining across his back as he fiddled with buckles on the front that refused to fasten. Pale skin glistened with sweat, for even though night had well and truly fallen, the heat radiating from the stone beneath the feet of all the students was intense, a testament to the heat of the day just ended. The young man folded his hands behind his back, making an awkward knot from his fingers. Frederick, for that was his name, tried to stabilise his breath, knowing that he looked like a flower trembling in the wind, all too easily swept away.

All eyes turned to the castle at a loud rattling noise, the wide doors groaning open as a single figure burst through, swift purpose in his gait. Practical leather armour defined his powerful frame, clearly well maintained and matched for neatness only by the neat moustache and tightly trimmed beard he sported. Dark eyes glared out at the assembled youngsters before him, his lips twisting with something approaching disgust. He muttered something under his breath, somewhere between a sigh and a curse, then stepped up to tower over the crowd, standing atop the steps leading up to the castle's main doors.

"Alright." His barking voice was fierce, but calm, measured. "Four rows."

There was a moment's hesitation as the students looked to one another. That soon ended, though, as the glowering man's voice roared like a thunderclap.

"NOW, for fuck's sake!" He began to pace as the youngsters scurried before him like deer before a wolf pack. "You're not ladies sitting around at court. When I command you to do something, you do it immediately and without question." He glared as the crowd bunched together, a confused mess. "I said ROWS! FOUR OF THEM! Are you stupid, or just useless? MOVE!"

The baffled mess somehow straightened out into something resembling a formation, students bumping against one another clumsily as they found their places. As they did so, Frederick found himself in the foremost row, gazing up at the Witcher, for he had no doubts that was who stood atop the steps, now no longer alone. Several figures stood at his side, all sporting gleaming medallions depicting snarling cats. They muttered among themselves, shaking their heads in equal parts amusement and disdain as they regarded their new arrivals. One, a young man with shadowy eyes and a scornful expression, stalked down the steps and approached the students. He began to drag his foot along the slabs, touching the points of each new recruit's toes and tracing a line across the front row. As he approached Frederick, his foot slammed into the youngster's, and his hooded eyes locked with Frederick's, dark venom gleaming in his gaze.

"You call that a straight line?" He asked, mockery in his voice. "Move. Back. And figure out what the fuck a straight line is supposed to look like."

Frederick tried to meet his gaze, but could only lock eyes with the Witcher for a fleeting moment before he felt his eyes twist downwards, his heart pounding as he shuffled his feet back the inch or so needed to meet the Witcher's demand.

The Witcher moved on, continuing to make disapproving noises as he forced the students into line. At the top of the steps, the other onlookers murmured their disdain. One, a slight woman with a light brown hood, looked upon the students with eyes like burning black coals, a sneer on her lips as she leaned to speak to one of her fellows.

"Pathetic. I wager not even one in twenty will survive the trials."

"Look how their lips tremble in fear." Another Witcher sneered. "That one. She looks as if she wants to cry."

"Oh, she will." The slight Witcher chuckled, an ugly noise in the night. "I will make sure of that."

Ignoring his fellows and their taunts, the first Witcher scanned the newly formed ranks with a neutral expression.

"Okay, finally!" He declared. "Took you long enough. If we'd been mustering for battle, the enemy would have overrun us and taken the castle by now. For the future, when I tell you to get in formation, you fucking do it! We are Witchers, we do not make requests, and you..." He placed his hands on his hips, head swivelling to meet the eyes of some of the young hopefuls. "You are students, you are not in a position to question orders or refuse commands. If I catch you disobeying one of the masters, I will make your life so miserable that the pyres of the Eternal Flame would be a relief in comparison. Now..."

He began pacing, his movements subtle, quick, precise. While in motion, he gave off the impression of a predator on the hunt. The students waited, watching him cautiously, until he spoke again, his voice cutting through the night like a knife.

"Welcome to Kaer Marter, home of the School of the Cat. I am Master Bastian. It will be my job, over the next few months, to transform your sorry arses into ruthless killing machines, the perfect weapon for hunting and slaying the monsters that plague our lands." His voice dropped. "I definitely have my work cut out." He straightened, voice rising again. "But I will not be doing this alone. With me are several masters of the Witcher trade, veterans of the School of the Cat. It is their task to instruct each of you in the individual skills that a Witcher must master."

At this, the first of his colleagues stepped forward, a woman of powerful stature, hand resting idly on the hilt of a blade at her hip, although the way the fingers curled around the pommel of the sword warned that the weapon was one she was all too familiar with, an extension of herself that would prove to be deadly in her hands. She surveyed the students with stony eyes, nestled beneath auburn locks. Her voice, although soft, held a power behind it that demanded the attention of all present.

"I am Master Elinor. It will be my task to teach you the ways of the blade, to ensure that your blows strike clean and true. If you will listen, and do as I command, you will perhaps survive your first hunt. If not, you will die, and the ghouls shall take your corpse."

She stepped back, allowing another Witcher, the slight figure in the hood, to step forward. A trinket of some kind adorned her brow, gleaming silver against the tresses of red that framed her graceful yet hardened features. Those burning black eyes blazed as she spoke in a voice so low that many struggled to hear it.

"I am Vreni, Master of Signs here at Kaer Marter. I will teach you to commune with the powers that flow beneath the surface of this world, and give you the tools to gain mastery over them. You will listen to my instruction, or those same powers will gain mastery over you and burn you up."

The next Witcher stepped forward, and he was perhaps the most unimposing of the gathered figures. He leaned heavily on a cane, walking with a pronounced limp. This man wore no armour, sported no weapon, and instead favoured clothing more in the style of a nobleman or a scholar. A number of students creased their brows in confusion, uncertain of what to make of this new figure. All confusion passed instantly, however, when the Master began speaking, his voice sharp, as resolute as the stone beneath his feet, his eyes piercing as they darted about through the gathering. As he spoke, mouth twisting sharply beneath a razor-sharp moustache that was clearly carefully maintained, his voice commanded the attention of all present, a strength behind it that his elegant appearance hid away.

"I am Master Lennart. My lessons shall arm you for the battles where you will face the most dangerous monsters of all, the men who claim to be human but could not be further from it. If you cannot heed my warnings, then you should RUN!" His voice rose sharply, making the faint of heart jump anxiously. "Or you will die. That is all."

As Master Lennart stepped back, the fourth Master, the same one with the dark eyes who had confronted Frederick about getting in line, spoke up. Unlike his colleagues, he lounged lazily over the back of one of the marble lions that guarded either side of the steps, he stifled a languorous yawn.

"I am Kilian. I am versed in the ways of alchemy and potion-making. I'll show you how to blow shit up." He shrugged, going back to laying across the statue, watching the students with a sardonic smile. Bastian glared at him for a moment, but received no response, so turned to the next of the group.

This next Witcher stood with one hand on his hip, watching the proceedings with open scorn. He scratched idly at his chest through his open shirt, mouth twisting with distaste as he examined the front row of students. His beard twitched as he chewed on the inside of his cheek, clearly bored.

"I am Algir. My classes will teach of the monsters that you must face in the wilds, their biology, their strengths, their weaknesses. Without my teachings, any hunt you depart on will be a death sentence for you. So fucking pay attention!"

His last words cracked through the air like the snap of a whip before he turned to nod his head to Bastian, who turned to the last of the masters, seated at the foot of the steps. At first, this final Witcher did not respond, until a sharp jab of Bastian's foot roused him from the daze he had slipped into.

This final master looked more like a bear than a man, almost seven foot in height, with powerfully built arms and legs to match his tall frame. Muscular and grim of face, it was obvious to all present that he was a Skelliger, fit to be a leader of one of their infamous raiding parties. Long, unkempt hair the colour of straw cascaded down past his shoulders, matched by the untamed beard that covered most of his face. A tattoo covered his right temple, a triangular symbol that many would assume to be Druidic in origin, while in his hand sat a massive horn, cut from a bull or an of of enormous proportions. The liquid in this drinking vessel steamed in the night, a few droplets of thick foam running down the side to meet the Witcher's fingers. His other hand fondled the haft of a war axe, runic symbols playing their way up the handle towards the burnished steel head of the weapon, well worn and notched as evidence of many prior battles, even while the blade itself was wickedly sharp.

The Skelliger stood, his black armour creaking. His voice, heavily accented, slurred a little as he took another gulp from his horn.

"I am Njall, of Ard Skellig." He rumbled. "I was born to the storms and the sea, a child of the rage of my people. The ways of battle are in my blood. The killing of monsters is in my blood. Obey me, and follow my example, and these ways shall become a part of you as well. I will make you strong, and if you will learn. If you will not... then you are dead anyway. I care not."

The Skelliger sat back down, turning his attention once more to his mead. All eyes turned back to Bastian, and then to the figure who emerged from the castle behind him, striding forward in silence. Many intakes of breath could be heard as the newcomer stepped forward, acknowledging Bastian with barely a nod before his eyes turned to the students. The way that the other Witchers acted around him, it was clear that he held much respect in the eyes of his fellows. Even the languid Master Kilian straightened up at his approach.

Piercing black eyes glimmered darkly beneath brows heavy with the weight of experience, hair once black as night now streaked through with dashes of grey. A well-trimmed beard and moustache encircled a strict mouth, lips pressed together with grim determination as the nostrils of a sharp and defined nose flared, testing the night air. His posture was straight as an arrow, his arms folded in front of himself imposingly. Red and black armour gleamed spotlessly in the torchlight, the fur collar of a red lined cape shifting ever so slightly in the gentle movements of the air. Here stood a Witcher with years, decades of experience, every lesson earned through many trials, and paid for in blood and sweat, but never tears. The terrible eyes and grim expression flickered to Frederick for but a moment before moving on to the next student, but it was enough to send shivers down his spine. In those eyes lay the warnings of a thousand difficult decisions, of hundreds of regrets, of a life dedicated to a cause no matter the pain and suffering endured. When he spoke up, his voice cracked with age, but still fielded enough power to command the ears of all around himself. His tone was soft, but beneath the surface there was a hardness, like steel.

"Greetings. I am Treysse, Grand Master of the School of the Cat. This is my school, and you are my students. Over the next few months, you will be trained to become Witchers. You will try to come to understand our ways and master our arts. You will try, but many of you will fail. Many of you..." His eyes swept over the crowd again, stony, emotionless. "will die. I care not. I am not here to weep over the corpses of weaklings. I am here to find the strong, and make them stronger. Of those of you who do survive, many will come to despise me and my staff. Again, I care not. We are not your friends. We are not here to ensure that you have a good time. We will not waste our efforts on those destined to fail."

"In time, if you survive..." He raised a finger. "If. Then you shall become one of us. A monster hunter. A Witcher. It is not a life of comfort, nor is it the easy path. Many will hate you for the choices you must make, some of them among the ranks of your fellow Witchers. This matters not. For the path Witchers walk along is not the path of good or evil, nor is it the path of fame and renown. It is the path of doing what is right, regardless of what its costs us. When you set off on the hunt, you will be alone, and you must decide what is right for yourselves, but know this..."

Tension boiled in the air as the Grand Master paused.

"If you ever bring disgrace upon this School or the Witcher's within, then death will be the least of your worries, for the suffering that I shall bring down upon you shall be swift and inescapable. It shall make drowning in ghoul shit and being torn apart by drowners seem like a luxury in comparison."

He turned to face his fellow Witchers, nodding grimly.

"Master Bastian, break them."

As the other Witcher stepped forth, the Grand Master strode to the doors, turning on his heel to watch the proceedings.

Bastian stopped at the top of the steps, looking about with a cruel grin.

"I don't know what cruel destiny or cursed fate brought you here. I don't know why some of you have been forsaken by the gods or abandoned by your families. But I know one thing- you are in my world now, and that is a world of pain, of sacrifice, of misery. I will make you suffer, ever moment of every day until you drop, and then I will revive you so we can do it all over again. You will exercise until you know no more than the sweat dripping into your eyes and the fire blazing within your muscles. Now drop."

Students scrambled to get down on the ground, some kneeling, others lying on their bellies, still others propping themselves on hands and knees. Frederick placed his hands square in front of himself, fingers spread wide as his knees pushed painfully into the hard stone. Already his breathing felt tight as Master Bastian barked out once more.

"We'll start with some push-ups. You will keep doing them for as long as I command. If I demand that you keep doing them for an hour, you will keep doing them for an hour. If I tell you to keep going for six months, you'd fucking better still be going six months from now. Now MOVE! Let's see some goddamned sweat out there!"

The silence of the courtyard was rapidly replaced with the frenzied gasps of the students, the gathered throng dissolving into a pool of rippling bodies, waves of motion as they lowered themselves to the ground and thrust back up again. Some would plummet to the ground, smacking against the slabs with a meaty slap, then thrust themselves up again with a sharp push from their hands and a rapid exhalation. Others were more measured, more constant, their rhythm smooth and practiced. Some would drop, then lay gasping for a second or two before shaking hands would slowly hoist them upwards again, rivers of sweat already streaming from red faces with blown out cheeks and puckered lips. Frederick started out well, he assumed, a nice, even pace, but after a mere ten or so of the motions, the fire kindled within his arms. His breath became ragged, desperate. Already he could feel a few drops of sweat winding their way through the roots of his hair, tickling at the back of his ears, and circling around his eyes. And then he saw boots striding past him.

"What a sad bunch." It was the one called Kilian. "What do the recruiters think to achieve by sending such weaklings our way?"

"They don't care what they send to us." Bastian spat. "They don't have to train them, to find some kind of pearl among this pile of pig shit. They don't have to burn the bodies when their 'prospectives' turn out to be a useless bunch of layabouts."

"Hey, brothers! Look at this one!"

The voice was obviously Algir's. To Frederick's dismay, the boots had stopped immediately in front of him. One, presumably Algir, crouched down, a pair of knees hovering close to the ground as the Witcher leaned in for a closer look.

"Fat wrists and fat fingers." The Witcher observed, his voice leering, mocking. "I doubt he has endured a single day's hard work. Probably spends all of his days at the whorehouses."

"Have you gone daft, Algir?" This voice was female, though Frederick dared not look up and see to whom it belonged. "With stamina like that? He wouldn't keep it together long enough to handle a woman. His cock probably withered and dropped off years ago from not being used." Her laugh was cruel, piercing the air. "No... this whelp spends all his time at the banquet table, stuffing his fat little face. Isn't that right, whelp?"

Frederick did not answer, instead pouring every fibre of his being into keeping going. Up and down. Up and down. If he stopped, with the masters watching him so closely, he knew he would be sure to pay for it, an example to the other students. His face boiled red, not just from the strain of his exercises, but also from the shame of the Witcher's words. He continued on in silence, save for his gasping, frantic breaths.

There was a long pause, then a snort, equal parts amusement and irritation, before one of the sets of boots marched off. Algir, still kneeling close to Frederick's head, chuckled.

"Smart move, little fat whelp." He sneered. "I like you. But that won't save you from the training. Keep going. Faster!"

A hand pushed down on Frederick's back, shoving him into the cooling stone. With a laugh, the Witcher was gone, proceeding down the line as the youngster tried to regain his balance. He lifted his head laboriously, sweat blurring his vision. He was aware of a final pair of massive boots standing before him, their owner gazing down at him, but he couldn't lift his head to see who. Finally, as the youngster resumed his exercises, the enormous boots turned and walked away, following the other Witchers. There was a gulping sound, a few droplets of steaming, sweet-smelling liquid splashed across the slabs, and the silent observer was gone. The torturous exercises continued.


	2. Chapter 2- Visitors

Black dots blurred Frederick's vision. He'd been exercising for what felt like hours. Push-ups, sit-ups, squats, the Witcher Masters were relentless with their commands. Now, the young apprentices found themselves contending with an invisible foe, launching punches and kicks in time to Master Bastian's demands. Not a single brow among the crowd remained free of sweat, many eyes blinking furiously as their owners' own body's salt burned them furiously. A couple had already collapsed, gasping for air as their chests refused to expand, muscles tight with pain crushing against their ribs. Still more were flagging, curling around cramping muscles. Frederick himself could feel a tremor beginning down in his core, his legs threatening to betray him. He tried to swallow, his dry tongue rasping against the roof of his mouth as he squeezed his eyes closed, shaking his head.

The young adept jolted in surprise as he reopened his eyes to find the impassive Master Treysse standing before him, the Cat School veteran's arms folded across his chest as steely eyes surveyed the Witcher student. An unreadable frown creased his brow. He opened his mouth to speak, but then a twitch of his gaze halted the words in his throat, the Witcher's attention drawn to a point somewhere over Frederick's shoulder.

"Master Bastian!" His voice barked out. "It would seem that we have some company."

Frederick resisted the urge to turn back and look at what had drawn, keeping his eyes squarely ahead. Treysse looked at the adept again, then spun on his heel, marching away. The young student tried to stifle his sigh of relief.

"STUDENTS!" Bastian yelled. "That's enough. We have guests, so form two lines next to the fountain!"

The students stumbled out of formation, staggering their way down the steps from the courtyard into the castle grounds, feet crunching on loose gravel as they headed towards the massive fountain that occupied the centre of the grounds, a vast sculpted pool of water almost half the size of the castle. With a little more berating from Masters Bastian and Algir, they managed to form two rough lines, many eyes turning anxiously to the far end of the gardens, where the new arrivals could be seen.

It was difficult to see in the torchlight, but there seemed to be a procession of several dozen people, headed by a man on a horse. Most of the approaching throng wore the basic training clothes of students, simple shirts and gambesons, identifying themselves as junior members of their troupe. As Frederick looked on, the glimmer of silver medallions could be seen around the necks of almost everyone in the retinue, snarling wolf heads baring their teeth to the night. A flare of consternation arose in the young adept's chest at this realisation. He leaned over to the student next to himself.

"What are Wolf School students doing here?" He whispered. The only reply he received was a shrug.

The new arrivals circled around the fountain, the horseman in front casually trotting up to face the Grand Master and his Witcher comrades before dismounting. The leader was a man of powerful and stocky build, sporting functional but plain leather armour with swords slung across his back. A sword sat at his hip, ready to be drawn at a moment's notice, while eyes like coal reflected the torchlight, flickering over to the students of the Cat School, and then back to the Grand Master.

Behind him, the ranks of Wolf School students were led by an assortment of clearly more experienced Witchers, presumably their tutors. The first of these, a tall, fair haired master, wore a darkly coloured gambeson that stretched down to his shins, a cavalier smirk gracing his lips. Next to him, a diminutive woman with dark hair and a grim expression, her leather armour so dark as to be nearly invisible in the gloom. As she turned, a vicious scar could be seen running down the side of her face, from temple to jawline. Next to her, a lanky Witcher with a wide grin to match his elegant broad-brimmed hat, stood calmly, casually slouching in comparison to his much stricter-faced comrades. Next to him, a Witcher with long, dark hair murmured into his ear, a dark coat covering his armour. He whispered a few words to his comrade before turning to a figure behind himself, a large man with an impressively bushy beard and clothing more suited to a steward or a servant than a Witcher. The trio spoke a few words to one another, then erupted into thunderous laughter.

As Frederick's gaze turned to the next of the Wolf Masters, he found himself taking in a sharp breath. The sixth of the Witchers from the School of the Wolf seemed to be staring straight at him, his eyes narrow slits that cut through the darkness like knives. His head was partially concealed by a hood, but the student could see that his head was shaved close to the scalp. A wry smirk adorned his features, his folded arms conveying indifference while he switched his gaze to another student.

The last of the Witchers present was possibly the most imposing of the group, towering over the others, his armour was a dull black in colour, perfect to blend into the night. Two swords sat upon his back, their hilts gleaming in the torchlight. Long, pale hair spilled down over his shoulders, while a gruesome scar cut across his face, running from his lower jawline across the bridge of his nose and up to his brow, glowing an angry red in comparison to his pale skin. All of this paled in comparison, however, to his eyes, glowing yellow with a vibrancy that stood out in the night. Slitted like a cat's eyes, they twitched about in their sockets, absorbing every detail they could perceive, and many that a normal human would miss. In those dread feral orbs, the students could see the true toll of a Witcher's life, the monster within consuming all that had existed before. As the tall Witcher's eyes swept the crowd, none could meet his stare. Frederick felt the touch of those eyes, icy cold, sending a shiver down his spine as he lowered his head.

The murmuring of the Witchers on the sides of both Wolf and Cat Schools ceased as the mounted Witcher descended from his steed, approaching Grand Master Treysse. The pair regarded one another for a long, silent moment, their features still, stony. Eyes locked like clashing sabres, neither one blinking. All present tensed, some reaching for weapons while others clenched fists, expecting a confrontation.

The Wolf Master's face creased with a smile, a guttural chuckle escaping from his chest as his arms spread wide. Treysse returned his smile, stepping forward with his arms extended to meet his comrade in a warm embrace. The duo exchanged a few pleasantries, the Wolf's smiles broad, while the Grand Master's were more restrained. Finally, Treysse turned back to his students.

"You see before you, the students and Masters of the School of the Wolf. These are our brothers, our comrades in arms. You will treat them as our honoured guests." He began to pace. "I warn you now, do NOT bring shame upon our school here. If I learn that any of you have treated our guests with anything less than the utmost respect, then your punishment will be swift and terrible. Do NOT disappoint me." He continued his slow circuit up the line of students, spinning on his heel to march back. He nodded to Bastian. "Now, how about a demonstration of our discipline?"

"Okay students! You heard our Grand Master! Round the fountain, go!" The Witcher Master commanded. "And keep going until I tell you to stop! Don't let me catch any of you lagging behind!"

Frederick smothered a groan of dismay, turning to follow the student to his right, wearily putting one foot in front of the other.

~o~0~o~

By the time the students had finished the third lap, Frederick was numb from the waist down. Every step sent a jolt up his spine, every movement of his arms was weighted, slow. For a while, he'd managed to keep up the pace, holding his own close to the head of the column, something he was somewhat proud of, but eventually he had found himself falling back, unable to keep pace with the many farmhands, stable boys and guardsmen who had lived lives full of physical effort. To his shame, he finished the exercise close to the back of the column, barely managing more than a jog. As he finished that third circuit, he staggered past the assembled Masters, a mixture of those from the Wolf And Cat Schools, noting that the Wolf students were nowhere to be seen, presumably sent inside the castle already. As the last of the students stumbled towards the finish line, Master Bastian held a hand up, calling the entire group to a halt.

"Enough. That will be all for today." He nodded in the direction of the courtyard. "Get up into the courtyard. The Masters will be along to decide which of you sorry sacks of shit they want to train."

Frederick stomped up the steps to the paved courtyard, barely able to bend his knees to reach the next step. Eventually, he found himself in a crush of bodies, a crowd of confused young people, all waiting for someone else to decide their fate.

The chatter from the nervous students was almost deafening to Frederick's ears, but the silence that rose from behind him was if anything even louder, and as he turned he saw the Cat Masters striding through the throng, pointing at individuals one after the other. A quick jab of the thumb told the selected students where they should go, gathering the adepts in smaller groups.

Frederick tried to stand up straight, hoping that he wouldn't be the last of the clutch to be selected, but the bustling crowd made standing erect almost impossible.

Suddenly, a massive hand clamped down on his shoulder, fingers clenching powerfully as an arm like a tree trunk hauled him backwards, turning him around. Before Frederick could breath, the looming figure before him thrust his face mere centimetres from the adept's the smell of warm mead and raw leather filling Frederick's nostrils. The tall Witcher's brows twisted as he regarded the student, locking gazes with him while somewhere under his bushy beard his teeth chewed the inside of his cheek. Master Njall, the Witcher from Skellige, drew his head back, releasing Frederick to walk around him.

"Tell me something." The master's words were slurred, although Frederick couldn't tell if it was from his accent, or from the mead. "Do you want to be strong?"

"Yes, Master!" The response was quick, automatic.

"Do you have what it takes to become a Witcher?"

"Yes, Master!"

"And will you follow my orders above all others, no matter the consequences?"

"Yes, Master!"

"We will see." The Skelliger shrugged. "Go, join the others. I will be with you soon."

"Thank you, Master!"

Frederick scuttled off to where the hulking islander had indicated, joining a small knot of other Witcher hopefuls. Anxiously, the growing clutch of students awaited the arrival of their new Master.


	3. Chapter 3- The Nightsabers

The torches flickered damply, the oily rags that fuelled them almost consumed by the flames. As the light retreated, the chill of the night air encroached upon the small knot of students that Master Njall had gathered, a ragged dozen youngsters. They shuffled uneasily in the gloom, hesitant to speak to one another. Frederick looked about, spotting similar groups dotted around the castle's grounds, waiting for their new masters. The adept leaned over to one of his newfound comrades, a slightly built but muscled young man with shoulder length dark hair.

"Did you see where Master Njall went?" Frederick whispered.

"Last I saw he was heading for the castle. Probably to top up his mead cup." The long haired student turned, extending a hand. "Greetings. I am Ragodar."

"Frederick." The pair shook hands. "I would ask what brought you here, but I suspect we're all here for the same purpose- to repay a debt to the Witchers. Do I presume correctly?"

"Actually, I am under no compulsion to be here. I came of my own free will."

"Indeed?" Frederick's brows rose sharply. "Curious. I would say you were a fool to do so, but given the choices that led me here, what would that make me?"

"A cursed son of a whore that even the gods have turned their backs on."

The voice, a deep growl, made Frederick jump, both he and his new acquaintance spinning around to find Master Njall stood in the midst of the group. From the way the other adepts shrunk back from the lumbering Skelliger, it was clear none of them had seen or heard him approach. Frederick had to marvel at that, given the warrior's large frame. Being able to move so silently and effortlessly had to take much skill.

The bearded Witcher Master lifted his drinking horn to his lips, foamy dregs washing down through his whiskers to splatter across his armoured chest as he gulped greedily at his drink. Some of the adepts present found themselves licking their lips as it occurred to them how long it had been since they'd last had even a sip of water, long before their exercises had begun. Even Frederick could feel the insides of his throat rasping together dryly.

Njall emptied his horn, turning it upside down to allow a droplet or two to splash against the flagstones beneath his feet, then he turned to stalk over to the low wall that ran around the edge of the courtyard, seating himself there as he regarded the students, his new charges.

"You have all been forsaken by the gods, to end up here." He shrugged. "I don't give a shit whether you were offered to the guild as payment, found yourself too poor to seek a life elsewhere, or you were fool enough to actually desire to come here of your own free will. As of today, your former lives are ended. You belong to the Witchers now.

"In our ranks, there is no such thing as class or nobility. You are not princesses that we must bow and scrape before." He paused, a wry smirk twisting his lips. "Actually, I may have spoken too quickly. There are some princesses among you."

One of the students, a young woman wearing a fur collar that spoke of more elegant origins than most of those gathered, scowled at him, her previously gentle features turning to harsh granite as her eyes launched forth venom. The Witcher merely chuckled before resuming his speech.

"While you are students of this school, you will obey a strict chain of command. Grand Master Treysse is to be obeyed, no matter the cost. After him, my word is to be treated as law. Then, you will listen to the other Masters of this school, and finally, the Wolves." He began to pace back and forth. "Am I understood?"

"Yes Master!" The students chimed dutifully.

"I am not convinced." He shook his head. "Again!"

"Yes Master!" The barked reply bounced off the castle's walls.

"Again!"

"Yes Master!"

"AGAIN!"

"YES MASTER!" This time, the darkness echoed back the cry and, somewhere far off in the forests that surrounded the castle, a flock of blackbirds took flight in a panic.

"Good." Njall grabbed a torch, pointing it at the closest student, the flames wavering inches from his face. He then walked through the knot of students, staring at each one for a long moment. At the end of the group, he turned. "Gather around the light. Quickly!" The adepts scurried to obey. "Now, look to your left, and then to your right. These are your new brothers and sisters. You will train together, you will eat together, you will fight together, and you will bleed together. If you fail the trials, you will die together. It will do you good to get to know one another. Speak your name into the flames and tell your brethren your purpose for being here. You first."

The young man who had been singled out jolted, clearly nervous. He gazed at the flickering torchlight, composing himself. His hair, shoulder length and tied back behind his head in a tight knot, was dark like the night, matched by the rough, short beard that he sported. His long, skinny arms folded in front of his lean body defensively.

"I am Cyrus." He muttered. "Where I come from is not important. I am here because my father..." He frowned. "My father does not understand what true strength is. He and my brothers, they always judged me as a weakling, the runt of the family. I'm here to prove them wrong. To show that I am stronger than they ever will be."

"If you're here for someone else, then you're here for the wrong reasons." Njall grumbled. "What will it prove to your family when you end up gutted by a Chort somewhere out on the path? No matter. Your life is yours to throw away."

He nodded to the next student, hovering just behind Cyrus' shoulder, where she had been for the whole evening. The girl blinked, mesmerised in part by the flames of the torch. She brushed a few strands of her blonde hair away from her face, her wide eyes looking to the others in the group.

"I am Ida." She announced. "I come from Redania, and I am also here to show how strong I may become. I will prove what I can do, what I can survive."

She fell silent after this, and Frederick couldn't help but notice the way that she stayed close to Cyrus, almost attached to him. The adept was certain that the young woman wasn't just there for the training, but rather out of loyalty that she was unwilling to admit publicly. A quick glance to her eyes, catching the flash of determined devotion that shone from within them whenever she looked to Cyrus, was all Frederick needed to understand her deeper motivations. Njall, meanwhile, turned his attention to the next student, the one Frederick had come to know as Ragodar.

"I am Ragodar Asper, also of Redania." His chin lifted up as he spoke, his poise proud. "I am a bastard, the son of someone other than my mother's betrothed. I do not know my father, but mother's husband, a cruel man with a hard heart, could not bear to be rid of her. He allowed her back into his home, and even gave me his name, but he could not mask his hatred for the betrayal I came to embody. While mother was given every luxury she wished for, I endured the cane, the belt, and the fist. I was educated, as any boy in a family of our standing should be, but the moment my mother passed away I was cast aside, disowned. Ida and Cyrus found me in the gutters of Roggeveen, and they took me under their care, helped me to turn my life around. I came here to be with them, to watch over them no matter what."

Ida and Cyrus nodded solemnly to their friend, who stepped back to the edge of the light, his eyes still staring at the torch. Njall nodded.

"A bodyguard, hmm?" He shrugged. "I have heard of stranger origins for a Witcher." He turned, looking to the other side of the clutch. "You next."

The next adept was a young man of little more than twenty years old, his fair hair cut short but not overly so. His expression was one of sharp attentiveness, eyes scanning all present. His poise, in contrast to the others, was perfectly straight, his back like an arrow as his hands folded behind his back. If Frederick had been asked to guess, he would have assumed a military background, but the words that came out of the youth's mouth soon presented another explanation.

"Krenai Aep Ardal, of Nilfgaard." The words were clipped, clear.

"Nilfgaardian?" Njall smiled, but it was the smile of a shark, all teeth and menace. "Never had one of those here before. I hear your lot has designs on making an Empire for themselves. It's cute." He chuckled. "Just don't get any ideas about starting a war here, got it?"

The next student in line needed no prompting to introduce himself. He was tall, although only reached up to Njall's shoulder, and his black hair was slicked back around his skull, a casual twist to his mouth conveying the ghost of a smirk.

"Colin, Colin Von Haddon. I was a squire, but my lord... He lacked the true spirit of a knight. I abandoned his service to come here, to make a real difference as a Witcher."

"Many expect to make a difference by becoming a Witcher." Njall interjected. "They are usually disappointed." The torch twitched again. "You, your highness."

The girl whom he had poked fun at earlier scowled once again, the frown creasing her fair, freckled features. Frederick could just see in the gloom that her hair, decorated here and there with some narrow braids, was a rich brown colour with a few hints of red running through it. He'd spent enough time in the markets to recognise the key signs of Skellige ancestry, and sure enough, when she spoke, her voice carried the soft lilt of the dialect of those isles.

"Hilda, of Clan Brokvar, Daughter of Jarl Halvdan and first in line to rule the Isle of Spikeroog, of the Skellige Isles." Her features softened, lips the colour of blood pressing together as she stared into the flames. "My father's plans were not suited for me, nor mine for him. I came here to have my own life, to make my own choices. As a Witcher, my path will belong to me and me alone, traditions be damned!"

She spat the last words, a small glob of saliva striking the torch with a loud hiss. Njall nodded, something in his expression that Frederick struggled to read- sympathy, perhaps? Regardless, the Witcher quickly moved on.

The next adept was a very slightly built young woman, shorter than anyone else present. When Frederick looked at her, he was put in mind of a mouse, timidly looking about with wide eyes. At first it looked as though the slightest breeze could knock her flat, but when Frederick looked more closely he could see that there was a strength there that many would underestimate. The girl brushed a strand of brown hair out of her eyes before speaking.

"Merinea. My name is Merinea." She whispered. "Where I come from is not important. I'm here to learn to survive, to be the best that I can be and destroy any who would threaten me or mine."

"A good cause." Njall nodded approvingly. "You should always be looking out for your clan, your people. But you're with the Witchers now. You no longer have a clan, or a people. You will become an outcast, a freak. Can you live with that, with the hatred of everyone you meet?"

Some of the gathered students nodded instantly, others hesitated. Frederick remained motionless, staring at the Master. Whether he could live with the burdens of this life or not didn't matter. His circumstances gave him no choice.

"You, next."

"I am Morold." The voice was monotone, flat, as the adept stared into the flames. The young man was tall and heavyset, a barrel-like chest hiding beneath his armour. He looked as though he could lift a tree by himself. His name stated, he folded his arms across his chest, nothing more offered.

"A quiet one, huh?" The Witcher shrugged. "Suit yourself. You, speak up."

The torch rotated to point at a pair of young men who Frederick had seen arrive together and that had stuck close to one another ever since setting foot at Kaer Marter, even during the gruelling exercises. One of the two brothers, for Frederick had no doubt that was what they were, was a little stockier, with hair the colour of midnight tied back in a strict topknot. He stroked his short beard thoughtfully, watching the others through narrowed eyes. His brother, on the other hand, had lighter brown hair cut short, a clean shaven face and a much lighter, lankier frame. The latter brother was the one that spoke up.

"I am Fordalt, and this is my brother, Otto. Our father is Baron Sachs of Gors-Velen. Our father's lands are threatened by enemies on all sides, so we have come here to study your ways, to learn the art of combat from the true masters of it."

Njall's laughter cut through the night, a throaty rumble bouncing off the castle's walls.

"You think to use us for your own ends? To take Witcher secrets back to your father? And you freely admit that? I don't know whether you are very brave or very stupid, boy. Perhaps it is both." He sighed, still smiling broadly. "A Witcher student who doesn't intend to hunt monsters. The instructors will have fun with you both. We will see when the time of the trials comes whether you find it worthwhile to have come here or not."

The next adept in line, stood next to Frederick, was another solidly built young man, arms hanging loosely by his sides as he looked about with hungry eyes, gleaming in the gloom. A mop of curly dark hair tumbled down around his ears, unkempt. As his gaze turned to the others, Frederick felt as though there was something almost predatory in his poise, as if he were ready to launch into action in less time than it would take to blink. It seemed as though he'd been among the Witchers all of his life, even though he had just arrived that day. Or perhaps it was the case that he'd merely been waiting to find his place among them, and finally the fates had granted him his desire.

"My name is Darren. Before the time of my birth, my father made a bargain with a Witcher- he invoked the covenant of surprise in exchange for the Witcher's aid. When he returned home to find my mother with child- with me- he sought to escape from the terms of the contract by running. Both he and my mother thought to outrun destiny." He spat. "They were fools. Becoming a Witcher is not something to flee from. It is my destiny, my birthright. I was born for a life of greatness, a life of renown. A life as a Witcher."

"I see." Njall nodded solemnly. "And tell me, do you know the name of the Witcher who brought you here?"

"No, Master." Darren replied after a long, silent pause.

"No? He didn't care enough about you to tell you his name? Well, get used to it! You're not the first one to come to our gates with a head full of destiny and eyes full of hope. The Law of Surprise is not something to be taken lightly, but it does not guarantee you a bright future. Just as many of our initiates with so called 'destinies' end up dead in a ditch as pass through our Trials. We will see in time whether the fates truly have a plan for you, or if they mock you from on high."

Finally, Njall turned to Frederick, lifting the torch to the adept's face. His brows, like thick, hairy caterpillars, twisted as he frowned.

"And you, little whelpling?" He asked. "What's your story? What foul string of luck brought you under my tutelage?"

Frederick's eyes flickered to the torch, almost dead as the night closed in on the students. A few embers clung to the end, a single sputtering flame the only true life visible. For some reason, Frederick found that he could not look away from that single, lonely flame. Aware of all the eyes now focused on him, he stepped forward, raising a hand to the torch.

"I am Frederick of the town of Asheberg." His fingers curled over the flame, feeling the heat prickle across his skin. "I was once apprentice to the Mage Travis, studying his ways. One day, a spell went awry in Master Travis' library, destroying the workshop and injuring Master Travis, but my injuries were the most severe. My body was saturated with the magical energies, burning away at my core. I fell into a deep sleep as my body broke down. I wavered over the threshold of life and death, until a Witcher came to my aid. His potions and herbs brought me back, and his only price was my service to the guild."

The adept kept moving his hands over and around the torch. Unseen to the others, so focused on Frederick's features, the single flame danced under his palm. It jumped against the wind, sputtering erratically as it flowed through unseen currents. The flame flared bright, then in an instant, it died, the acrid smell of smoke drifting into the air.

"The fact that I am still here is due to the Witchers." Frederick continued into the darkness that now enveloped all of them. "My life or my death, I owe it to the guild."

"A noble sentiment." Njall responded in the darkness, his glowing yellow eyes the only part of him visible. "But there are no nobles here. Only scum, sons and daughters of whores, the forsaken ones of the land."

Frederick heard the Master turn, pacing between his students.

"Under my tutelage, you will become Nightsabers." He stated. "Like mighty cats, you will be the talons in the darkness, striking fear into the hearts of all that lurk within the shadows. Your fangs will seal the doom of all who would threaten the innocent. Your hide will turn the blades and arrows of all who would stand against you. But first, you must survive my instruction, my training.

"In time, you shall come to despise me. I will break your bones, I will bruise your ribs, I will crack your skulls. Eventually, I'll break your spirits, and instil within you the spirit of a Witcher. To do that, you must become strong. Every time I command you to work yourselves to exhaustion, I will be making you stronger, and with every drop of sweat I cause you to shed here, I will be saving you a drop of blood out there on the hunt. So, every time I tell you to become stronger, you will thank me, and you will obey."

"Yes, Master!" The voices chimed from the unseen students.

"Well then." The Witcher's voice growled, the tinge of a smile audible in the murk. "Do you want to become stronger? Show me."

"Thank you Master!" The students barked.

The night filled with the grunts of the adepts as Frederick dropped onto his hands and knees, his bones and muscles groaning in protest as, surrounded by his newfound comrades, the Nightsabers, he once more pushed himself past his limits.


	4. Chapter 4- Meinard

Frederick staggered through the double doors that formed the entrance to the castle, stepping into the foyer. He paused inside, giving his aching legs a moment to recover, his eyes roving over the grand entrance of the castle. The domed ceiling curved far overhead, a chandelier weighed down with decades of candle wax casting a faint, flickering light across frescoes of warriors, maidens and vicious monsters. Below, a tiled mosaic painted a swirling, elegant pattern on the floor. Two flights of stairs curved up around either side of the doorway, a deep red carpet coating each step. Frederick scanned the walls adorned with grand paintings, recognising the opulent nature of the building. Master Travis' luxurious home paled in comparison to the former elven palace. Even so, the scars of the Witchers' habitation could be seen. Scuff marks on the floor from hundreds of booted feet, holes in the plaster of the walls from arrows and crossbow bolts, stains on the woodwork from clumsily spilled potions, the halls of the castle may never have been invaded while the Cat School occupied it, but the Witchers and their students were almost as harsh on the castle as any intruding army.

"Are you well, student?"

Frederick jolted out of his reverie. Turning to the source of the soft-spoken voice, he found himself confronted with a short woman, standing before him with her hands on her hips. Her hair, fair with a few tints of black running through it, was cut short about her ears and jawline, most of it hidden beneath a red cap, tilted at a jaunty angle. A pair of shrewd eyes observed Frederick, quickly taking in every detail. A pensive smirk graced her lips.

"You're lost, aren't you?"

"Me? No!" Frederick answered instinctively. "I was just... just... uh..." His shoulders sank. "Yes."

"You're not the first." She smiled. "I am Jana. I keep things in this school organised for Master Treysse. You're one of the new recruits, right? Not one of those Wolves from Kaer Tiele?" Frederick nodded. "Excellent. You've been billeted in quarters on the ground floor, to the right. Find an empty bunk later. For now, you should probably head to the Grand Hall, down to your left. I believe most of the students will be gathering there. I've heard that the steward brought up a new keg of ale to be tapped."

"Thank you, m'lady." Frederick bowed low, averting his gaze as the woman chuckled.

"A polite one?" She smiled. "Good manners don't last long here, in spite of Master Lennart's efforts. Be well, student. Best of luck in your training."

With that, she was gone, and Frederick found himself following her instructions. He turned left, following a long, dark corridor, only to be halted as another voice called to him.

"Frederick!" He turned to see Radogar approaching, Ida and Cyrus close behind. "We are glad to have caught you. We Nightsabers should stick together, no?"

"Agreed." The adept nodded. "There's so many people here, my head is a blur!"

"Aye, it's overwhelming!" Cryus agreed. "And now we have these Wolf School adepts to deal with, too. I do not understand why they are here..."

"And they did not come alone." Ida added, her voice low. I heard tell that there are some others following along with them. Temerian soldiers of some kind."

"I saw a bard in their midst." Radogar supplied. "She appeared distraught. There were whispers of some kind of attack on the journey."

"An attack?" Frederick's brow rose. "Did they say what kind of beast it was?"

"Nobody can confirm anything right now." The young man replied. "It's all very strange. I will try and find out more from the other adepts tonight."

"Then perhaps you should join me." Frederick offered. "I was just going to the Grand Hall. I believe the other students are gathered there right now."

The newly formed quartet made their way through the hallway, emerging from the darkness into the warm, orange glow of the Grand Hall.

Flames roared in the broad, open fireplace, casting waves of heat throughout a large room, studded with thick wooden pillars that supported the ceiling. What looked to be the best part of an entire tree blazed brightly within the fire, sparks leaping from the ends of various branches and twigs to twirl up the blackness of the chimney. Overhead, several chandeliers cast their light, occasional droplets of molten wax from overloaded drip pans falling to splatter against the oaken floorboards. Just beside the doorway, a broad staircase curled up to a gallery overlooking the hall, a few chairs and tables up there giving a clear overview of the tables.

The tables below were filled with students, their Masters dotted among them, the centres of various distinct knots that were forming. Chatter, laughter, and even a few slurred drinking songs rose towards the roof, buoyed up by rich, sweet-smelling alcohol.

"Students!" Algir yelled from a chair, surrounded by his new apprentices. A brimming tankard sat before him as, with an unsteady gesture, he pointed at the new arrivals in the doorway. "Njall's pupils, right? Come, have a seat! Join my Hunters in a drink."

The Witcher ushered some of his students to shuffle aside, making space for Frederick and his friends.

"Yes, take a seat. Welcome to Kaer Marter. Someone get some ale for our new comrades!" He turned to face the adepts. "Now, on to introductions! I am Algir, as you already know, and this is-"

Before Frederick could find his seat, a gnarled hand grabbed him by the shoulder, spinning him around. Grim, black eyes rushed forward to gaze into his, a sudden, strange face hovering just a few inches from his own. Frederick tried to back away and get a look at this strange new assailant, but another hand shot out to grab his free shoulder, keeping the adept hostage.

The black eyes, like bottomless pits, scanned Frederick's face, taking note of every wrinkle, every scratch. The dead, blank gaze locked with the former Mage's apprentice's eyes, and for a moment, Frederick felt the most uncomfortable sensation he had ever known. It felt as though he were an insect, being looked down upon from an enormous height. Who he was, what he knew, everything he'd lived through, none of that mattered to the observer. The only thing those black eyes cared about was how Frederick could serve their own personal agenda.

"What's your name?" The voice was coarse, rasping. Deep in the animalistic part of Frederick's brain, an image of a serpent arose, forked tongue dancing behind thin lips.

"F-Fredrick." He stammered.

The claw-like hands released, allowing the student to stagger back into the table behind him, just keeping himself from toppling over. Finally he was able to get a better look at the owner of that unnerving gaze.

The man before him was dressed in an elegant red jacket, with a gleaming golden shirt visible beneath it, a Cat School medallion dangling against his breast. The clothing did a good job of hiding his gaunt frame, but the withered wrists and slender neck poking out of the clothes betrayed the corrupted, waxy form beneath. Dark blue veins, bordering on midnight black, ran just beneath the surface of borderline translucent skin. His eyes, so bleak and unreadable, were socketed within deep, shadowed pits in his face. Frederick had heard much of the potency of Witcher mutagens, leading him to assume that what he could see in this older Witcher's face was the legacy of years of experimentation, of dabbling in dangerous herbs, ointments and elixirs. The Witcher pursed his lips, lifting a hand to cup the apprentice's chin as he rotated Frederick's head from side to side.

"And how old are you?" The Witcher sounded as if he were inspecting a cart of produce he was considering buying, or a calf he was considering slaughtering for his table.

"Twenty-six, my Lord." Frederick tried to cease the crawling sensation just under his skin.

"Hmm." The Witcher clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "A little old... But still... Healthy teeth, bright of eye, hale complexion... Tell me, have suffered from plague, consumption, any venereal diseases?"

Frederick opened his mouth to answer, surprised by the frankness of the question, when suddenly Algir was by his side, trying to push himself between the student and the strange Witcher. Frederick found himself wedged against one of the wooden pillars, unable to retreat for the press of bodies formed by the group of onlookers that was now converging upon them.

"Come on, Meinard. Enough." Algir interjected. "This isn't the time for one of your-"

"I was merely asking the student some questions." The new Witcher, Meinard, interrupted, reaching up to brush a strand of shoulder-length fair hair from his face. "Professional curiosity. The way magical energies flow around him is most-"

"BASTARD!"

The curse cut the Witcher off abruptly as all heads turned to the staircase and the source of the exclamation. The Wolf teachers and students could be seen there, many of them glaring at Meinard with open hatred. The one at the front of the group, the Master that Frederick recognised from their arrival as the hooded, shaved Master, now no longer hiding his head beneath his hood. The Master wore all black, from his boots, to his shirt, to his gloves, studded with silver spikes at the knuckles, to the bandana wrapped around his skull. A medallion hung around his neck, but it depicted no wolf's head. Instead a twisting serpent writhed upon his breast, venomous fangs bared. His eyes burned in the half light of the fire, threatening to skewer Meinard with pure rage made tangible.

"What the fuck is he doing here?" The Witcher sputtered, fists clenched almost as tightly as his teeth.

"Gedymin!" Meinard threw his arms wide, a broad, gloating grin on his face. "How have you been, old friend?"

"Do not speak to me as if we are friends, you piece of shit!"

"What a rude way to address your old comrade." Meinard feigned insult, his smirk still affixed to his face. "What do you think of my castle? Pretty nice, huh? If you behave yourself, maybe I'll show you around later!"

He turned back to Frederick, his smile fading.

"Now, where was I? Oh, yes! Have you ever had re-"

A flash of silver appeared in front of Frederick's face, a whisper of sliced air brushing across his cheek as a short, wickedly curved dagger embedded itself in the wooden pillar before his eyes. Frederick turned stiffly, fear coursing through his veins.

Gedymin's arm was extended, clearly the source of the thrown weapon. All was silent around the room for a long moment, save for several sharp intakes of breath, and the slither of steel as numerous weapons slid from their sheathes.

Master Elinor was first to move before the room descended into chaos, her sword already bared and ahead of her as she wove her way through the throng, her blade cutting a way as she flowed through the mass like water, never once touching a student or another Witcher. Her eyes narrowed as she made her way to the foot of the stairs, clambering up them lithely to confront Gedymin. Before she could finally reach him, the entire room burst into a fracas of noise, panic and bustling bodies. Students leapt to their feet in shock, tables and chairs screeching across the floor as bodies slammed into them. Some more swords waved in the crowd, adepts scrambling to get out of the way of the weapons. More Masters of the Cat School could be seen rushing to the stairs, Kilian and Bastian among them. Meanwhile, Gedymin's Wolf School fellows turned on him, the horseman from the courtyard being the first to grab his arm as he reached for another blade. The scarred woman caught Gedymin's other hand before he could punch his fellow Wolf in the face, whispering a warning to him. Then, in a blink, Elinor was there, her blade whispering through the air to hover above Gedymin's heart, the tip a fraction of an inch from piercing his flesh.

Shouting filled the hall as panic overwhelmed Frederick. He turned to see a narrow opening in the crowd, the other students parting to get around the pillar. The adept forced his way into the gap, staggering to the back of the crowd and almost tumbling to the floor as the press of bodies released him. He sank to his knee, gasping for air.

"Frederick!" Radogar was instantly at his side, concern etching his features. He offered a hand to help the mage's apprentice to his feet. "Are you alright?"

"No." Frederick turned to see Ida and Cyrus following them out of the crowd, similar worry on their faces. Beyond them, in the heaving mass, he caught sight of black eyes staring over the confusion, looking straight at him. "No, I am not. We should leave."

"What did that strange Witcher want with you?" Ida asked.

"It's not important." Frederick tried to shrug it off. "I just really need to get away from here, right now."

The other three nodded solemnly, helping him find the door. Once beyond the door, Frederick released a sigh of relief.

"That was getting too intense." He breathed. "Come on, it's been a long day. Let's see if we can find some bunks."

The quartet made their way through the hall, eventually finding a dormitory to share. Weary from the day's events, they settled down, Ida and Cyrus soon descending into a deep slumber while Radogar, after a moment's restlessness, left to find himself a mug of ale somewhere. Frederick, meanwhile, found himself laying in his bunk, staring at the ceiling, discomfiting thoughts racing through his mind.

Eventually, he fell asleep, but his dreams offered him no comfort, images of snarling wolves, roaring cats, and slithering serpents rising and falling as he faced Witchers, monsters, and students in a chaotic cavalcade. And beyond it all, watching him with almost surgical interest, two eyes the colour of midnight filled the sky of his mind, inescapable, always watching.


	5. Chapter 5- Morning Drills

Frederick was roused from his fitful slumber by a thunderous pounding on the door. The dormitory echoed the knocking back as the room's four inhabitants stirred, bleary eyed.

"Wake up, students!" One of the Witcher Masters, possibly Bastian, could be heard beyond the door, his voice bellowing. "It's time for morning drills. You have five minutes to be out in the courtyard!"

The four students groaned as they tried to extract themselves from beds that, the previous night, had seemed coarse and uncomfortable, but had miraculously transformed through the night into the epitome of luxury. Frederick's weary muscles fought to remain in that warm niche, refusing to flex and move as they were supposed to. Eventually, with a goliath effort, the adept rolled out from under the covers to stand, blinking his eyes a few times as he looked about for his boots, carelessly discarded the previous night. With those located, he set about putting his bed in some kind of order before turning to his friends with a weary smile. The others, just as dazed and groggy from the previous night's events, returned the smile.

"Good morning Cyrus, my lady Ida. I trust you slept well?"

"As well as could be expected." Cyrus shrugged. "I feel as though my limbs are ablaze this morning!"

"I do not like the sound of these morning drills." Ida spoke. "I was hoping we would have more time to adjust before getting involved in such a rigorous routine."

"I don't think the Witchers work like that." Radogar answered. "We have to be ready to be thrown into the thick of it with our training."

"Indeed." Frederick nodded. "I trust your night was a good one, Radogar? You were awake much later than I."

"Aye. I was exploring the grounds, learning a little more of our new home. I learned much of that Witcher who accosted you last night, Frederick."

"Oh?" The former mage's apprentice suppressed a shudder. "What did you learn?"

"Well, his name is Meinard, as you are aware. He was once a Wolf, like the others who arrived last night. Apparently he was exiled from their school, although the reasons for this are unclear. There are rumours of him aiding in the murder of another Witcher, some talk of him consorting with monsters, and others say that he performs experiments upon students that study under him, testing out new mutagens and potions on them to find better ways of enhancing his adepts, but at a great physical and mental cost. I was told that any students whom he questions regarding their age, health and suchlike are being considered for one of his experiments."

"I see." Frederick could not dispel the unease in his gut.

"Yes. It's likely that, had that Master Gedymin not intervened, you would have ended up involved in one of his mutagen trials."

"I don't know what to make of him." Ida said. "I mean, working on potions and mutagens to make us stronger, to make our trials safer, is one thing, but if the other rumours are true..."

"There is more." Radogar raised a finger to interrupt. "One of the bards with the Temerians was attacked last night, in the woods. There are rumours that the attack was carried out by creations of Meinard's that escaped confinement."

"Surely the Witchers here at the school would have gone after such creatures as soon as their escape was known." Cyrus scoffed.

"Not if Meinard was creating them in secret." Radogar interjected. "If their nature is as sinister as others suggest, then perhaps the other Witchers did not know of their creation. Regardless, whatever the creatures were, I believe that they were dealt with last night. I heard a hunting party left during the small hours. I wanted to join them, but Kilian stopped me, as I have yet to be trained in the Witcher arts. He instructed me to leave the matter to more experienced Witchers."

"Monsters this close to the castle is an unsettling thought." Cyrus mused. "If Meinard truly is behind them..."

"I don't trust him." Frederick stated bluntly. "That moment when he was questioning me, the look in his eyes... I felt as though I were already on an operating table, being dissected while I still lived and breathed."

"I'm just glad he didn't single me out." Ida replied. "I wonder... Why did he choose you, Frederick? Didn't he say something about-"

"I don't know." Frederick interrupted, perhaps a little too quickly. The others regarded him with curious glances, not one of them convinced. "Come on, we'll be late for drills."

The quartet made their way out of the dormitory, joining a current of students sleepily making their way to the courtyard. Outside, the Masters waited. The Cat School Masters waited to the left, while the Wolves lurked to the right, stepping aside to allow the students to pass between them. Watching over all of this with hawk-like intensity, the Grand Master stood impassively at the top of the steps leading down into the gardens, hand placed leisurely on the hilt of his weapon. Bastian stepped out to stand next to the Grand Master, eyeing up the students with a disdainful glare.

"Students! I trust you've all taken the time to knock the shit out of your ears, and you're all bright and ready to face a new day." He yelled, some of the students before him wincing at the harshness in his voice. "This morning, before your classes, before you will be allowed breakfast, we will start the day off with a run out into the woods. We will do this every day, without fail. I don't care if a drowner ripped your face off the night before, you will run. I don't care if you spent the last evening in the company of all the whores in Toussaint and drank three barrels of wine, you will run. I don't care if you feel like your heart will burst and your lungs will collapse. When I tell you to run, you. Will. RUN! Only once you have performed to my satisfaction will I permit you to join us at the table. If I am unhappy, then you shall go hungry for the rest of the day! Is that clear?"

"Yes, Master." The throng mumbled wearily.

"Oh, I'm sorry." The Witcher drawled. "Where are my manners, asking so much of you when you'd all rather be in bed? I forgot I was in the company of such pampered weaklings! Now, once more!"

"YES MASTER!"

"A little better." Bastian thrust his thumbs into the waistband of his breeches. "Now, you see Master Harlaw, out there on his horse?"

The Witcher instructor who had led the Wolf School students to the castle the previous night could be seen cantering around on the castle's vast lawn. His steed tossed its mane back and forth as it danced across the grass, relishing the gentle sunlight of the early morning.

"He will lead you to a lake out in the heart of the forest. Be sure to keep pace with him! I will be following behind, and if I catch any of you lagging behind, choosing to take a leisurely stroll instead of doing as I command, then I will make your life hell for the rest of the day. I want to see each and every one of you wet your hand in the waters of the lake, before turning and making your way back here. Now move!"

The clustered students groaned, shuffling down the steps to the castle's grounds, making a beeline for the waiting Harlaw. Frederick followed the rush, trying to stick close to his friends, but the press of bodies soon separated the quartet. So instead, he turned his attention to his feet, focusing on putting one before the other.

"Come on, form ranks!" Bastian called, his voice exasperated. "Four lines! Show some fucking discipline!"

"Good morning, students!" Harlaw called over the crowd, his voice honeyed and too cheerful for such an early hour. "Try to keep up!"

The Witcher dug his heels into the flanks of his steed, spurring the beast into a trot. The adepts, still a confused knot of bodies trying to form the requested ranks, began to pant as they tried to keep up with the rider. Just as they were falling into a comfortable jog, the Witcher twitched his legs again, urging the horse into a canter, and the students had to accelerate again.

"Keep going!" Harlaw's shout could be heard over the desperate breathing of the adepts. "You won't be able to outrun even the most pathetic creature at that pace! Or do you-"

The Witcher's shout was abruptly cut off, causing Frederick to raise his head sharply, looking ahead to realise that he could no longer see the mounted Witcher. He glanced about, puzzled, faltering in his gait as the other students around him similarly stalled. Suddenly, a rippling laughter sprang up through the throng, rippling towards the back of the columns. Finally, Frederick could see the source of the merriment. Harlaw's horse, still cavorting about gaily, was now riderless. The former mage's apprentice spotted Master Harlaw still dusting himself off, adjusting his belts and equipment as he picked a few twigs and leaves out of his hair. Before the chuckling of the students could rise to the level of full-blown laughter, the Witcher's eyes flashed in their direction, smothering sniggers and snorts alike before they could leave their owners' throats. For a moment, he scowled, but then the Witcher's expression dissolved into a sheepish grin.

"Consider that a lesson in how to NOT be aware of your surroundings!" He chuckled. "Now, keep going, before Bastian catches up to you!"

The mood of the students lifted somewhat at this, smiles spreading throughout the students, and Frederick found himself and his fellow adepts keeping their pace more easily, buoyed up by the boost to their mood.

Soon enough, the students found themselves deeper in the woods, following a narrow, worn trail as the castle vanished behind them. After a while, the trees gave way to a large, wide clearing. A placid, emerald green lake lay at its heart, bounded by a girdle of towering reeds. The path ran up to the very shore of the lake, where the forerunners of the pack of adepts had already come to a halt, kneeling to dip their hands in the tranquil waters. Frederick stumbled the last few steps to the water's edge, dropping to one knee in the mud as he reached down.

His fingers brushed the surface of the water, minute ripples spreading out in growing rings. Just as he moved to submerge his hand, he froze, his muscles all tensing at once. He lifted his gaze from the water, glancing to the far bank of the lake. As he did so, a shimmer of movement caught his attention, a tremble in the reeds on the far bank. Frederick couldn't be certain, but he thought that he could see a handful of figures moving beyond the reeds. One turned, a flash of deep brown eyes beneath a crown of mahogany hair, and then the figure was gone. The adept shook his head, looking again, but there was no sign of anyone in the reeds. He shrugged, turning back to dip his hand into the water. His blood was still pounding in his veins from the exertion, making him light-headed. Perhaps he was imagining things. He stood, turning on his heel to rejoin the others.

~o~0~o~

The adepts descended upon the dining hall with wild ferocity, a plague of ravenous mouths made even more voracious by the morning's drills. Frederick found himself in the heart of the crush, hurriedly filling his plate with eggs, sausages, cheese and meat, the scents of the food driving him wild. He staggered through the mass until he spotted Radogar, Ida and Cyrus at a table to one side. Radogar waved him over eagerly, indicating a seat that he had kept empty. As Frederick made his way over, he noted two others at the table, Otto and Fordalt, the brothers from Velen. The pair nodded to Frederick as he took his place opposite them.

"Frederick." Otto nodded. "Survived the morning's drills, I see."

"As have you." Frederick responded.

"Well, I would hope so!" Otto smirked to his brother. "We are our father's strongest fighters, after all. If we couldn't keep up the pace for a simple exercise regime like that, then it'd be a pretty poor showing for our family."

"But that doesn't matter." Fordalt said quickly. "Have any of you heard about what happened last night?"

"The creatures in the woods?" Frederick asked. "We've heard a little."

"The Masters say that they've killed all the beasts, but they don't want to talk about what kind of creatures they were." Fordalt shrugged. "Or how they came to be so close to the castle."

"We've heard a few more whispers since returning from drills." Radogar supplied, pointing a fork at himself, Ida and Cyrus.

"Oh?" Otto's eyebrow rose. "Do tell."

"There are rumours -just rumours, mind- that the creatures in the woods were capable of using magic." The young man explained, shovelling a morsel of food into his mouth.

"And?" Fordalt asked dismissively. "There are plenty of creatures that use magic. The swamps of Velen are rife with Foglets that can use magic to hide themselves. Even the vampires that we hear about in old wives' tales can use magic to meddle with their prey before swooping in for the kill."

"Ah, but this wasn't just any kind of magic." Radogar countered. "It's being said that they used the Witchers' own Signs against them, that they had medallions like those of the Wolves and Cats to aid in channeling power through themselves."

"Really?" Frederick leaned forward. "Interesting... And you're sure of what you've heard?"

"Well, as I said, it's just a rumour, but the descriptions of the medallions, and of the powers being used, was very definite. I think that-"

"ATTENTION STUDENTS!"

The shout cut through the dining hall like a knife, silencing all chatter instantly. Grand Master Treysse stood at the broad door that led into the hall, his demeanour as stern as ever. Next to him stood another man, of average stature, dressed in splendid formal clothing, and elegant frilled white shirt visible under a blue overcoat the colour of a clear summer sky. This stranger wore a leisurely, confident smile as he placed one hand on his hip. Treysse scanned the room before speaking again.

"This is Ser Jost of Rinde. He is the envoy of the King, here to speak with me on behalf of Temeria. Ser Jost is my honoured guest, and will be treated as such. I will not stand for any mistreatment or disrespect shown to him. Extend him every courtesy, and endeavour to meet his every request. This instruction also applies to anyone in his company."

The hall was silent as all present regarded the newcomer carefully, nodding understanding of the Grand Master's instructions. Treysse nodded, a small twitch of his head.

"Excellent. Now, I believe you all have classes to attend?"

Even though there was still some time until the students were due to report to their lessons, everyone in the room picked up on the instruction hidden within the Grand Master's question. Chairs scraped across the floor as adepts hurried to clear their places before leaving. In moments, almost all of the students had filed out of the hall.


	6. Chapter 6- Gedymin

The Nightsabers fidgeted uneasily in the hallway, glancing to the heavy wooden door that barred their way. They'd been instructed to head up to this quiet wing, far removed from the rest of the castle, but to their consternation they'd found the door locked and no tutor waiting for them. So, unsure of what to do, they had opted to wait. Silence reigned over the group for a short while. Frederick found himself glancing to the other members of the group, now able to look at them properly in the daylight. Eventually, like the sundering of a dam, the awkward quiet gave way to nervous chatter between the students. The young man that had introduced himself as Darren was the first to speak up.

"So did the Masters say what our first lesson would be?" He asked.

"Master Njall told me we'd be studying monsters this morning." The girl called Merinea. "I don't know who will be teaching us, though."

"Monster Knowledge?" Otto scoffed. "I didn't come here to spend my days in a classroom! When will they get to teaching us the REAL secrets of being a Witcher, like swordplay and magic?"

"I'm sure they'll get to that in due course." One of the other adepts, the boy named Morold, reasoned. "But first they must make sure that we are equipped with the knowledge that we need to hunt these beasts."

"I have neither the time nor the desire to learn that." Otto was dismissive.

"Then, with all respect, why are you here?" The Nilgaardian, Krenai, asked. "The purpose of our training is to prepare us to face the beasts that haunt the wilds of this world, to ready us for all aspects of the hunt. This includes understanding our prey."

"We have enough troubles back home with the beasts who walk around and call themselves our enemies without distracting ourselves by hunting animals." Fordalt, Otto's brother, answered. "We're here to learn how to fight like a Witcher, to slay our foes in the blink of an eye, to become warriors of unmatched ability."

"I don't think that's how this training works..." Colin, the former squire, murmured.

"If you think you can use the Witchers as some kind of training school to hone your skills for personal gain, then you are both fools." Darren, the student who had identified himself as a Child of Destiny, said snidely.

"Think what you will of us." Otto postured proudly. "We're the best warriors in all of Velen, and our time here will only serve to make us stronger. Once our training is complete, we shall return to our father in triumph and take our places ruling over the land in his stead."

"I know of no Witcher who ever returned from the hunt to become a Lord." Cyrus observed. "I'd always thought it was against their code to have any kind of holdings. Something about their practice of neutrality, their refusal to submit to any one kingdom. That is why they can move so freely between the various lands."

"Cyrus speaks truly." Darren noted. "You're both quite naive to think that you can just return to your old lives once your time here is over. Now that you've been inducted into the Guild, you hold no more stature than a flea-ridden peasant, like Morold over here."

The stout young adept flinched at the words, clearly allowing their barbs to lash at him as Darren leaned over to nudge him with his elbow, winking.

"You couldn't even begin to decipher the complexities of noble affairs, could you, friend?" He laughed, oblivious to the awkward silence that began to overtake the others as they watched. Ida seemed emboldened to speak up, interrupting the young man's laughter.

"So were you of noble birth, Darren?" She asked pointedly. "You speak as one who was born into such affairs."

"Well... I..." For an instant, Darren was at a loss for words, his mouth opening and shutting a couple of times around imagined then rejected replies. "Well, in truth, no, I was not. Actually, I know nothing of my heritage. By the time my mother gave birth to me, my parents had already been on the road for some months, trying to avoid the Witcher who was sworn to claim me. We travelled from town to town, never stopping for long. They had some coin to spend, for a while, as we never wanted for a warm bowl of stew or a bed to rest our heads, but at the same time we had to work to support ourselves, my father helping to thatch a roof here, repairing a fence there, sometimes even aiding a village's menfolk on the hunt, while my mother would mend blankets or pluck chickens. I cannot begin to guess whether I was born from a wealthy line or an impoverished one. My parents always avoided the subject, presumably from fear that I would seek out my birthplace and maybe be overtaken by the Witcher."

"It's not too terrible a life, though." Morold reasoned. "A life on the road, food for your belly, a different place to sleep each night..."

"Knowing your parents." Frederick muttered, albeit too quietly for anyone present to notice.

"It was a waste of time." Darren sneered. "My parents tried to avoid fate. In doing so, they tried to cheat me of my destiny, to keep me from the life I was meant to lead."

"You truly believe that your course has been set by destiny?" The Nilfgaardian, Krenai, asked.

"I do." Darren's chest swelled. "I am a child of destiny, touched by fate and driven by forces most men couldn't possibly understand. I will become a Witcher, and I will be known far and wide for my achievements. Even one of the Masters here, Master Meinard, has picked me out for special consideration. He claims that he can help me become a strong Witcher, even more powerful than most of the Masters here. What more proof do you need of my preordained path?"

Frederick suppressed a shudder at the name, a flash of black eyes guarding an endless abyss racing through his mind. He looked over to his room mates to see their concerned eyes glancing back to him. Ida was the first to speak.

"I am not sure that he can be trusted." She spoke slowly, choosing her words carefully.

"Oh? What makes you say that?"

"Well, was saw that Master speaking with Frederick last night, asking him to praticipate in the same experiments as you mentioned, but-"

"Really?" Darren wheeled to face the former mage's apprentice. "He considered you for the new mutagens, too? Are you also a child of destiny?"

"No." Frederick felt uncomfortable as all eyes turned to him. "I was an apprentice to the Mage Travis of Asheberg before-"

"A Mage's apprentice?" Darren grew excited. "So you have knowledge of magic, then."

"A little."

"And what kind of spells have you cast?"

"Just-"

The words caught in Frederick's throat as images flashed into his mind. His own hands, moving of their own volition, his lips trembling over alien and uncanny words that he'd never heard before. Lights wheeling around him, a dizzying display that both blinded him and opened his eyes wider than they had ever been in all his life. Glimpses of worlds beyond his ken, of strange beasts and terrible demons. A world bathed in ice and snow. Flames. Devastation. Noise. Then the blackness of insensibility. He fought to keep his hands from shaking, swallowing the awkward lump in his throat. He coughed to cover over his hesitation.

"Just the one."

"And what did it do?" Darren pressed. "What did it feel like?"

"I- I'd rather not discuss it." Frederick kept himself from stammering. "It is not a spell that I should ever repeat, for the benefit of all around me."

"Suit yourself." The other adept shrugged. "Still, perhaps that is why he singled you out. If you have an affinity for the arcane, that could put you in good standing to survive his experiments. So, has he arranged with you when you will undergo the procedures?"

"No. I'm not going to take his treatments." Frederick said firmly.

"What?" Darren was incredulous. "Why ever not? Why would you turn down the chance to obtain more power?"

"I don't trust him." Frederick explained. "When he was speaking to me, I felt like an animal in a cage. If you submit to his experiments, I guarantee that he will not be concerned for your welfare."

"I'm not afraid." Darren replied proudly. "Our training is not without risk as it is. How bad could it be?"

"Don't forget what that other Master told us." The Skellige woman, Hilda, spoke up. "Remember Reinicke, the one with the hat? He said that Meinard was cast out of the Wolf School for killing their old Grand Master! How can you trust him if he would do something like that?"

"Well, what if the benefits of his works outweigh his past deeds?" Darren reasoned. "I mean, he promises that his procedures will keep all adepts from dying during the Trial of the Grasses. The traditional methods and mutagens are said to kill almost all Witcher students. Isn't that kind of benefit worth tolerating his former actions? As long as the Masters of the school keep him on a short leash and monitor him carefully, we should be ready to reap the benefits of his work."

"And the lives put at risk for his research?" Radogar asked sharply. "What of them?"

"Then they would most likely have perished during the Trials anyway. That or they would have been weeded out on the hunt." Darren shrugged. "Either way, better that they die achieving something worthwhile than wasting their sacrifice failing to benefit the rest of us."

"What a cold way to look at the world." Ida murmured.

"It's the practical way." The young adept replied. "Witchers do what they must to achieve their goals. If that means tolerating someone like Meinard and his experiments, then I am at peace with that."

"A pragmatist. Good. We can make use of that."

All the students turned to face down the corridor at the strange voice, finding themselves facing the Witcher Master who had attacked Meinard the previous night, the Witcher known as Gedymin. His serpent medallion gleamed against the black of his loose-fitting shirt as he adjusted the black bandana that was wrapped around his crown. He stepped out from where he had been leaning against the wall, watching the conversing students silently.

"There is no room in the Witcher's guild for compassion, or sensitivity. Ours is a most cruel profession, and there is no such thing as a pleasant contract." He stalked forward, his feet silent on the floor.

As he walked past Frederick, the young man could see two wickedly curved daggers stuck into the back of his waistband, the hilts of the weapons polished to a fine sheen through repeated use. His snake-like eyes flicked from face to face, studying each of the students.

"Don't you students have a class to attend?" Gedymin asked.

"Monster Knowledge." Hilda explained, pointing at the door behind her. "We're meant to be in this classroom, but no one is here. We don't know who our instructor is meant to be."

"Monster Studies? That's Meinard's specialty." Gedymin's words made Frederick's stomach lurch. "He's probably fetching some specimens from the dungeons."

"Specimens?" Cyrus asked warily.

"Aye. You'll see soon enough." The Witcher smirked. "He does love his practical demonstrations."

"Sounds like you know a great deal about him." Morold observed.

"I do. More than I wish." Gedymin spat. "From the sounds of things you've all had your own run-in with the Master or his creations, so I won't bother to elaborate, but I can say that you are right not to trust him. Meinard is dangerous. More than that, he is cunning. Do not allow him to lure you in with his words and ideas. He will outfox you in an instant. He was part of the Wolf School for a time, but he is no Wolf in his heart."

"With all due respect, Master, I would say that you are no Wolf, either." Darren interjected.

"Your meaning, student?" Gedymin folded his arms across his chest.

"Your medallion." Darren pointed. "School of the Viper, right? The coiled serpent."

"You're correct." Gedymin nodded. "You've heard of our School?"

"A little." Darren explained. "I've heard that you operate very differently to other Witchers. That you don't hunt monsters, but instead take contracts out on humans. And that you are all a bunch of cold-blooded murderers."

"You think to goad me?" Gedymin chuckled. "To somehow prick my conscience with your barbed words? These are accusations I've heard hundreds of times before, child. I do not deny them, I embrace them. Yes, we spurn monster contracts in favour of those that allow us to target humans and other sentient species. We are proud of our way of doing business. In fact, I would go so far as to say that our work is just as important as that of the other Schools."

"How so?" Merinea couldn't help asking.

"Many would reason that the real monsters of the world don't stalk the forests and feast on blood and flesh with their talons, but rather they stalk our homes, preying on our weaknesses and fears from behind the guise of authority and trustworthiness. We Vipers deal with such threats, toppling the corrupt or the unjust, avenging the mistreated, and eliminating those who would threaten the stability of the land. Some say that makes us no better than common mercenaries, but I say that it makes us pragmatists, people ready to get our hands dirty to do what must be done. All, of course, while being paid fairly for our services."

"So where do you train?" Otto asked. "Where is the home of the Viper School?"

"Nowhere." Gedymin shrugged. "Everywhere? We have no castle to call our own, no mighty palace granted to us by the fickle whims of a King. We roam wherever we choose, never having a place to call home. There are no great numbers of us at any one time, only a scant half dozen, but our fame is widespread, and we often attach ourselves to other Schools to pass on our skills and knowledge."

"I would hesitate to call that the style of a Witcher." Fordalt spoke up.

"Then don't." The Witcher was impassive as he turned to leave. "We know what We are. I know what I am willing to do in the line of my work. What others think of me is of no consequence. I chose the School of the Viper because I know that I would make a poor Wolf or Cat, but I excel in the art of killing men. My skills are best suited to their way, and I am satisfied with my path."

The Viper Witcher took a step back, bowing slightly.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I should leave before Meinard turns up."

The Witcher turned, striding out of sight in seconds, and not a moment too soon, as Meinard stalked into view at the far end of the corridor. Frederick felt his guts tighten at the sight of the red-coated Master, striding down the corridor towards the students. Behind him, two servants followed closely, a long, wooden box held between them. Behind them, a black figure, shrouded in a long, all-concealing cloak that hid their frame from head to toe. Underneath that thick, black fabric, the clink of metal could be heard, jangling with each step. An aura of dread swirled around the figure, it's face hidden. As it stepped close to Frederick, one of the sleeves of its cloak shifted, offering a glimpse of all-too-pale wrists, narrow and bony, bound in heavy iron shackles. A quick glimpse was all that Frederick could steal, however, before the foreboding apparition had passed, following Meinard closely.

The Witcher Master stopped at the door, glancing to the gathered students with a disinterested gaze. Those dreadful eyes swept across the group, lingering on a couple of figures, Darren and Frederick among them.

"Forgive my tardiness, students. Today's lessons require much preparation. I require a few minutes more, and then we shall begin."

The Witcher vanished into the room, followed by the servants with the box, and finally the cloaked figure. The students waited for some minutes more, now all silent as they watched the door pensively. Even the cocksure Darren seemed nervous, glancing to the others with unease.

There was a thump, loud, violent, followed by a stern shout. Frederick heard Meinard shout a single word, a command of some kind, and then the room beyond the door fell silent again. Just as the silence was becoming unbearable, Frederick almost desiring to reach for the door and try the handle, the door suddenly swung open sharply, a gust of cold air escaping from the room within. The servants bolted out, and to Frederick's consternation one of them clutched at his arm, blood flowing profusely from between fingers clenching at an open wound. The other servant supported his comrade to keep him from falling as the pair dashed off down the corridor. Frederick couldn't help but notice the unhealthy pallor that now filled the stricken servant's face. Meinard strode out behind them, a look of disgust crossing his features.

"Get him to the healers, now!" He called after the retreating servants. "And when I call for another to assist me, make sure they are not so incompetent!"

He calmed, his irritation almost visibly flowing away from his form as he turned to the students.

"I apologise. It would seem that reliable help is hard to come by in this place. What I wouldn't give to have access to the servants of Kaer Tiele again..." His facial expression twitched as he looked over the students heads. "Ah! Master Njall! I have been informed that these are your students, yes?"

Frederick turned to find that, to his shock, the Nightsabers' Master was indeed standing behind them, as if he had been there all the time. Once again, the adept had to marvel at the burly Skelliger's ability to move so silently, almost wraith-like. Njall loomed over the back rank of the students like a monolith, his arms folded as he regarded Meinard.

"I had come to see how my students fared in your class, Meinard, but it would seem that you have yet to begin. If that is the case, I would speak with you before your lesson starts."

"Yes, of course!" Meinard nodded warily. "Would you care to speak privately, or-"

"Anything we have to say can be spoken of in front of my students." Njall interrupted. "I have no secrets from them, nor shall I ever try to. A pupil must trust their master completely."

"As you wish." Meinard's tone was flat, but the downward twist at the corner of his mouth revealed his disapproval.

"I have heard... rumours... in the castle that you are trying out new mutagens, new techniques for enhancing our students, is that correct?"

"Well, it's far more complex than that, but essentially, yes." Meinard nodded.

"And you hope that these techniques will make the Trials safer for our adepts in the future, yes?"

"Eventually." Meinard qualified. "We still have much work to do."

"I see." Njall's hand cupped his chin, fingernails scraping through his beard. "Well, before you get any ideas relating to my students, know this- they are my charges. I will keep them safe, no matter the cost. Should you do anything to endanger their lives, you will answer to me. Is that clear?"

"Well, yes, but I have no intention of causing harm to any of them." Meinard replied. "If anything, it's my hope that my new techniques will make sure not one of them perishes during the Trials, Njall. You know the toll of our little initiation ceremonies, brother. Don't you want to eliminate the risks those Trials bring?"

"Not at the expense of the safety of my pupils." Njall reaffirmed. "Find other creatures to test your formulae on, murderer. Leave my students be."

"As you wish." Meinard sighed. "You have nothing to worry about, Njall. Besides, that is not why they are here this morning. They're here to learn about the beasts that we hunt in the line of duty as Witchers. So, if you're done threatening me over imagined schemes...?"

"Go ahead." Njall waved a hand. "I will return to gather my students after you are finished."

With that, Njall was gone, and Frederick couldn't help but feel all the more exposed for his absence. He suppressed a shiver as Meinard looked back to the students, waving a hand at the still-open doorway.

"Come, students. We mustn't waste any more time. Welcome, to Bestiary Studies. Please, step inside."


	7. Chapter 7- Monster Knowledge

The students filed into the room in silence, following the waiting Master Meinard's direction. The room beyond the doorway was brightly lit, save for one corner. While throughout the rest of the opulently arranged study bright sunlight blazed, cast by broad windows to pool on the dark wooden floorboards, in the furthest corner deep shadows lurked, made even more pronounced by the brilliant beams of light that beamed around its perimeter.

Frederick glanced over curiously, never having seen such a clear boundary between light and dark before. After a moment's study, he realised why such a clear distinction existed. Candles had been laid out around that corner, forming a rough circle as their tiny flames flickered energetically. Beyond them, a ring of luminous runes had been drawn on the floorboards, a repeating pattern of a single symbol, two triangles arranged end to end around a single point. A hazy purple colour hovered over the runes, like waves of heat over a dusty road in the middle of a sweltering summer's day. The hazy shimmer rose up, a translucent, contiguous sheet reaching to the ceiling. The strange barrier seemed to almost be holding the darkness in, barring the light from trespassing beyond. This made it very difficult to see what lay beyond, but by narrowing his eyes, Frederick could perceive the outline of the wooden box that the servants had been carrying. Wisps of white vapour seeped from beneath its lid, slumping heavily to the floor to crawl across the wooden boards like a swarm of wriggling white maggots. Frederick shuddered to perceive it, certain that he did not want to know what the box contained.

A rustle of movement caught his eye, a flicker in the shadows beyond the box. As Frederick tilted his head, white eyes flashed in the darkness. They locked with the young student's for just a moment, and then they blinked shut, whatever owned them vanishing in the murk. Frederick imagined for a moment a gaunt, almost skeletal figure scurrying behind the box, but it was gone before he could be certain. He took a step towards the corner, curious, but a claw-like hand grabbed his shoulder, spinning him around the surprising force.

"Student!" Meinard's voice was stern, the edge of steel beneath it. "You will pay attention to me while you are in my class, not the specimens, understand?"

Frederick nodded silently, his thoughts still on that strange figure in the gloom.

"Good." Meinard could clearly see his preoccupation. "Now, welcome, students, to my class. Here, we will study the creatures we are duty-bound to hunt. With my knowledge, you will come to understand our prey, to know their strengths, their weaknesses, their hunting strategies. In this way, hopefully, you will avoid falling to their claws and fangs, or meeting an even worse fate, with some creatures."

Meinard paced the wooden floor, walking along the line of students that had had formed between himself and the corner. Frederick got the sense that he did this just as much to keep an eye on the corner and his 'specimens' as it was to keep an eye on the students under his charge.

"A few ground rules- you do not interact with the specimens without my express permission. You do not try to seek them out without my knowledge. When I am not conducting these classes, the specimens will be locked away in a location that only I and the Grand Master know about, and to which I hold the only key. I will hear no plans of releasing these beasts to the wild, or of slaying them to 'put an end to their evil'. They are vital tools in my work and must be left alone, understood?"

The students nodded silently. Frederick twitched as he heard a rustle of movement from behind himself, but kept his gaze firmly fixed on Meinard as the Witcher glanced over sternly. Another shuffling sound echoed over the adept's shoulder, followed by the creaking of a floorboard. He felt a breath of air, cold as ice, slither past his ear, the hairs on the nape of his neck standing up as he sensed a presence at his back, a knife blade hovering a fraction of an inch from his spine. Meinard glanced at whatever lurked behind the adepts, but did nothing.

"You will also follow my instructions to the letter. These are wild beasts, and must be treated with care and a healthy respect for the danger they pose. If you get yourself bitten, poisoned, or your arm torn off, you will only have yourself to blame. My subjects are hungry, and you cannot blame them for obeying their nature."

The presence behind the adepts lingered, the breath of air turning into a ghostly, haunting giggle. A long, low moan wormed its way into Frederick's ear, at the same time sensual and nauseating. All the adept could think of was how badly he wanted to turn around, to face the threat, to see the danger that he knew was near, but he dared not, partly out of fear of the Witcher, and partly out of fear of what he might see.

"Thirdly, and most importantly- you will not cross the chalk markings while the wards are in place. The magics of the Yrden sign are in place for your protection, but also for the protection of my subjects. They form a wall that most creatures could not pass. To force your way through the barrier could prove... damaging. Aside from that, you would then find yourself trapped within, and I cannot guarantee that I could lower the wards in time to come to your aid. It is also possible I will choose not to lower them, if I believe that your stupidity would put the rest of us at risk. Do you understand?"

The adepts nodded numbly. Frederick glanced sidelong at the others, and could see that they were similarly affected by whatever lurked behind them as he was. Meinard, a ghost of a smirk on his lips, nodded in satisfaction.

"Good. Now, you're no doubt curious about what specimens I've prepared for you today. Turn around."

Frederick, a knot of anxiety in his belly, turned, dreading what he might see. The sight that awaited him took the young apprentice by surprise. Whatever he had thought might be waiting within the circle, it was nothing like the reality.

What stalked within the confines of the runic circle appeared to be a young woman. Her skin was pale, almost sickly white, mottled with grey. Hair the colour of midnight shimmered over her shoulders, running down to the small of her back in uneven, chaotic strands. Her face was narrow, almost feline in appearance, with sharp, defined cheekbones and a fine, narrow jawline. Her eyes, gleaming a pale white with extremely small pupils at their heart, sat within deep sockets, dark rings surrounding them. Her lips shone in stark contrast to the rest of her face, a deep, luscious scarlet, behind which pearly white teeth flashed.

The woman wore next to nothing, the tattered remnants of some kind of skirt or dress tending to the modesty of her lower half while she left her upper half exposed, her semi-nakedness setting the blood of many of the assembled students pumping. Her abdomen and back rippled with small but well-built muscles, warning of a wiry strength that should not be underestimated. Even so, signs of malnourishment could be seen. Beneath her bare breasts, ribs could be seen teasing their way through the flesh, while her spine protruded prominently. As her stomach heaved with every breath she took, the adepts could see that it was beginning to become hollow, curving inwards beneath her ribs. Frederick felt a swell of pity as he observed this, realising that this woman, so unassuming in appearance, was wasting away under whatever Meinard was doing to her.

She turned to the young student, almost seeming to sense his pity. As she did so, she revealed a jagged gash that ran from her collarbone, down to where her heart lurked. The edges of the wound were raw, pink, still slick with blood, as though it were refusing to heal properly. At the sight of the injury, Frederick felt a swell of compassion for her, his heart pounding with remorse and pity. He found himself breathless at the surge of emotions, a blur of wariness, sympathy, and not a little lust warring with one another for control of his mind, and over all loomed a confusion that wavered through his thoughts, confusion at why one creature so small and pitiable would be treated in such a way, why Meinard would feel the need to contain her with such powerful precautions. Such a creature couldn't possibly be a threat, could she?

The woman scuttled across the floorboards, her hands and feet stained black with dirt as ragged fingernails scratched at the wooden floor. As she moved, Frederick saw a primal, animalistic quality in her gait, her body unfolding sinuously with every cautious, subtle step. She noted his gaze, her own eyes flashing with a hungry light as she met his stare, and then he perceived the true danger, for behind those eyes, a snare lay in wait, a venomous barb waiting to strike any lured into range by her unassuming, dainty form. Her lips parted as she smiled, pulling back thinly over her gleaming white teeth a sharp contrast to the blood red of her lips and gums. A long, low, carnal groan escaped from her throat, her shoulders shivering as the sound, somewhat akin to a feline purr, shivered its way free of her chest. It was as her smile grew to its widest that her true nature revealed itself, sharp, pointed fangs becoming visible. Frederick's anxiety spiked, transforming into outright fear, and yet he found his eyes locked to the creature, unable to turn away from her mesmerising eyes.

"Tell me, students, what do you see before you?"

Meinard gazed down on the creature, seemingly the only one unmoved by her presence. Her head snapped round to stare at him, her eyes narrowing a fraction. Her entire posture changed at the sight of him, reflecting something resembling fear and frustration, much like a dog that had been whipped many times, but there was also something else there, deep beneath the surface. Obedience? Devotion? Excitement? Frederick got the sense that none of these words were right. Something else described the relationship between the Witcher and the creature.

"I-it's a vampire!" Morold breathed in surprise. He like, many of the students, had his gaze affixed to the creature, unable to look away.

"Of a sort." Meinard nodded. "But there are many subspecies of vampire. Ekkimara, the brutal claw, Katakan, the invisible assassin, Fleder, the flying death... Each type of vampire is unique, with their own strengths and weaknesses. You must learn the difference between a Nosferat and a Gharkain, for it could mean your life or your death."

"Is it a Bruxa?" Frederick mentioned the only name he'd heard applied to a female vampire.

"Good! Not quite, but close!" Meinard rubbed his hands together. "This is a Mula, very similar to the Bruxae or the Alpir in nature. All three species are able to masquerade as Human, if need be, but the Mula does vary somewhat from her kin in that she cannot speak. However, do not let this fool you into considering her any less dangerous! Many a Witcher has fallen prey to a Mula because he considered her to be one of the Lesser forms of vampire, whereas the Mula is actually a Higher vampire, capable of great feats of magical manipulation!"

The Mula twitched every time her name was spoken, ears twitching under her midnight tresses. As Meinard waved a hand in her direction, her head bobbed expectantly, nose tracing the path of the proffered hand as if expecting it to contain a treat. When it became apparent that no such treat was forthcoming, her head bowed with disappointment, and Frederick once again couldn't help but feel the pang of pity for her. Realising that she would get nothing from Meinard, she turned her back on him, scuttling away. Every few steps, she would turn her head back, a pout on her lips as she glanced to the Witcher. Meinard's only response was a mildly amused smirk.

"As you can see, she already understands how to use her body language to elicit an emotional response from those around her. Some would say that, in spite of her me nature, the Mula is able to understand Human emotions more clearly than we ever could. And that would make sense, for she relies on controlling and manipulating her prey to hunt."

The Master paced around the circumference of the circle of runes, the Mula watching his every step. She let out a mewling call, a question in her tone, but Meinard did not answer her.

"But where the true threat lies, her true weapon, is her magical ability. The reason we have to erect these wards around her. For Mulas, like many vampires, have a strong ability to control the minds of weaker beings. They can enslave both man and woman alike, clouding their minds with primal urges, promising them their deepest desires, and muddling higher brain functions to keep them confused. In this way, the prey is lured in, rendered helpless, and then..."

The Mula let out a throaty moan, the ghost of a chuckle within. When Frederick looked to her face, he saw there a sickeningly gleeful grin, the tip of a long tongue tracing its way around her fangs.

"I think you get how that tale ends." Meinard's smile was sinister. He stepped away from the circle, stalking behind the students.

"Now, that does not mean that a vampire is impossible to work with. I have found certain methods that are effective at conditioning subjects to exhibit certain behaviours in response to certain stimuli." He walked around the far side of the group, once again approaching the circle. "Watch."

The Witcher stood upon the very edge of the circle. The Mula, sensing something approaching, backed away from Meinard, the shadow of fear etching her uncertain features. Her legs tensed, almost eager, but her body looked ready to flee, depending upon whether she faced punishment or reward. She flinched as Meinard whistled sharply.

"Hey! Tits!"

The Mula's posture instantly eased, her face creasing into a hungry smile. She straightened, standing to her full height as her muscles flexed within her limber frame. Her hands rose, stroking at her belly with gentle caressing moments as she groaned, a sensual, arousing call. One hand rose to entwine itself within her hair, fingers knotting themselves in the ebony strands as her breathing grew deep, rushed. Her legs trembled as that scarlet tongue slipped out from behind the ivory prison bars of her teeth, tip tracing a glistening trail across her rose-coloured lips. Her eyes rolled back behind fluttering lids, her head leaning back into the gentle caress of her hand. Her free hand rose, fingertips brushing along twitching, eager flesh. She grabbed her exposed breast, fingers clenching eagerly as her moans reached a fever pitch. The students found themselves entranced by the strange, carnal dance.

Then, just as her features clenched with erotic ecstasy, the Mula's eyes snapped open, her moans siezing in her throat. She let out a yelp, dropping down on all fours as she leapt back, looking as if she'd been burned. Her normally husky, deep growls quickly transformed into whimpers of pain as she scampered around the wooden box behind her, hiding from view. She peered out from behind the box, her raven crown and shining eyes all that the students could see. Her eyes flickered to Meinard, flashing with unbridled hatred. The Witcher merely chuckled.

"As you can see, this Mula has been conditioned to respond to certain trigger words. She believes that responding in the way that I have taught her will earn her a reward, but she has also been conditioned to associate pain with extreme pleasure. A vampire is at its most powerful when it indulges its own desires and reaches that point of euphoria normally associated with a successful kill, but also brought on by intense physical gratification. By making her fear that point where she should be at her strongest, I hope to teach her to fear the lethal desires that vampires are normally slave to, and so overcome the addiction to feeding on blood to survive."

As the Witcher spoke, the Mula slowly emerged from behind the box, crawling forward with her body low to the floor. She approached the students, halting just the other side of the circle. She looked to each of the students in turn, a hopeful look in her face. Darren was the only one to respond, pushing a foot forward until it was mere inches from the edge of the circle. The Mula dropped her head, almost sniffing at the foot as she brought her face close to the floor. Just as she reached out, a curious hand stretching towards the adept, the barrier flashed, a purple spark exploding around her fingers, making her flinch. Darren pulled his foot back, stifling a cruel laugh.

"So, we see how words can be used to encourage certain behaviours." Meinard continued, ignoring the pantomime the young student was playing out with his pet. Instead, he moved to his desk again, pulling a pouch from one of the drawers. He pointed to the young Merinea, the short woman jumping at finding herself under his scrutiny. "You, step forward."

He opened the pouch, producing six small dice, carved from what must have been the bones of some creature, their sickly yellow colouration betraying their age. He handed them to the adept.

"Cast them on the ground."

She did so, the dice clattering with a hollow sound against the floorboards. At the noise, the Mula's head whipped around, her eyes locking on the dice. She scuttled to the very edge of the circle, as close to the dice as possible. She lifted a questioning gaze to Meinard. He ignored her, still talking to Merinea.

"Now, arrange them in order of value, smallest to largest."

Merinea dropped to her knees, shaking hands gasping each of the dice and pushing them together as she organised them. She lifted her head to find the Mula staring straight at her, a hungry shine to her eyes. Merinea froze, her hand hovering over the arranged dice, until Meinard's hand pushed hers aside, grabbing the dice.

"Good. Now, observe."

With a flick of his wrist, the Witcher tossed the dice into the circle, the cubes flashing with a bright purple light as they passed through the barrier with little hesitation. Frederick wondered at that, speculating that perhaps the Witcher's playthings had had some kind of enchantment put upon them. The dice clattered to the floor, coming to a rest in moments. The Mula looked at them, then to Meinard. A moment stretched longer and longer, and then Meinard nodded. The vampire leapt at the waiting dice, her hands moving in a frenzy as she organised them. At one point, she put the numbers out of sequence, but quickly corrected her mistake. Once it was done, she looked up to Meinard, expectation in her face. A curious purr escaped from her throat.

"As you can see, she has learned what is expected of her. She replicates the expected behaviour, even though she doesn't understand what she is doing." He paced over to the circle. He smiled down at her, and she returned the smile, nodding her head at the cluster of students. "And now, she's accustomed to a reward."

The Mula let loose an insistent grunt, pointing a finger. Darren jolted as he realised that he was the focus of the vampire's attention.

"As you can see, she's made her choice." Meinard explained. "Fret not, I'm not about to feed you to my subjects. She will receive another reward, later."

The Witcher turned, walking towards his desk, but paused as the Mula let out a confused squeak. He turned to face her, seeing that her arm remained outstretched, although instead of a pointing finger her palm was now turned upwards, and almost begging gesture. Her brows turned upwards as she looked to the Master in confusion, betrayal clear on her features. She grunted again, more insistent. Meinard smiled that cold, reptilian smile.

"She doesn't understand." He said, moving to crouch next to the circle as the Mula moved to crouch opposite him. She twitched her head towards the adept again. "She seems quite taken with you, student. I wonder... Perhaps you'd like to sample her powers? I could arrange a... demonstration."

All the students turned to Darren at the question, the young man's face twitching with a momentary doubt, before his features hardened, a silent nod all the consent he needed to give. Meinard's cold features broke out in a broad grin.

"Excellent. Let's prepare."

Behind the students, the Mula growled hungrily.


	8. Chapter 8- Mula

The candles burned faintly as Meinard pulled the shutters down across the windows, sending the classroom into dark gloom. Inside the magic circle, the Mula prowled, her predatory gait taking her past each of the nervous students. She smiled as she locked gazes with each of the adepts, her fangs flashing as her tongue teased their tips eagerly. Meinard ignored her antics, allowing her to continue toying with the students.

Frederick shuffled uneasily on his feet, regarding the creature with measured caution. Every fibre of his being warned him to run, to hide, to get as far away from this small, unassuming woman as possible. The Mula turned to look at him, her inhuman eyes locking with his. Her head tilted, and Frederick found his own reflexively tilting in kind, almost as if drawn by invisible strings. He felt, for just a moment, as if he were falling, a deep, black abyss pulling at his form, but then the moment passed as Meinard moved between the pair, cutting Frederick's line of sight. The adept shook his head, trying to clear the fog that threatened to roll in on his senses.

Finally, after an interminably long time, the Witcher Master had finished his preparations, adding further runes to the circle and lighting a few extra candles. The power of the barrier had changed, the flickering lines of violet now more pronounced, more real. Beyond, the Mula looked almost like a mirage, her form more hazy and indistinct behind the magics keeping her at bay. She sensed this, too, stepping back from the ethereal wall as it pulsed with renewed power. Meinard, meanwhile, turned to face his pupils.

"Now, I will need the co-operation of several of you for this exercise. We must be coordinated for this to work, otherwise we risk much." He turned to face the circle, pointing to the runes. "When I drop this barrier, we will be exposed to the full extent of the Mula's power. You-" He pointed to Darren. "What is your name, student?"

"Darren." He replied. He opened his mouth to say more, but the Witcher quickly cut him off.

"Good. Darren." He rubbed his palms together in anticipation. "The Mula has chosen you as her prize. If we drop the enchantments, she will focus all of her concentration on you. You will feel... compulsions. She will appeal to your baser desires. It will be almost impossible to resist."

"I can take it." The adept proclaimed. "She won't seduce me."

"We will see." Meinard muttered darkly. He turned, pointing to the two brothers from Velen. "You two, stand either side of him. When he tries to enter the circle, hold him back. Now, the rest of you, stand back here. We need as much space as possible for this experiment. Tell me, have any of you an understanding of Signs?"

The blank looks upon the students faces answered his question.

"I see. A pity. But no matter, I will handle the casting. Observe from back here. Perhaps you can learn enough to aid me later. Now..."

He moved back to the edge of the circle, motioning for the trio of students to get into position as the others drew back, tension in their every movement. The Mula, sensing their intent, shuffled forward, still squatting on her haunches. She looked quizzically to the Master, a purring grunt escaping her lips. When her eyes turned to Darren, they gleamed with hunger.

"Be ready, students." Meinard said, his voice little more than a whisper. "This will be unlike anything you have ever experienced."

The Witcher waved a hand, the barrier flickering into nonexistence. As it did so, the candles marking the circle's perimeter flashed with renewed vigour, the flames stretching out perhaps a foot into the air.

The air in the study flushed cold, like a wall of ice advancing inexorably from the circle to engulf all present. With it, Fredrick felt what seemed like a wave of euphoric confusion flood his mind. His senses lessened, his hearing hollow, his fingers numb and his eyes filled with fog. Whispers filled the corners of the room, shifting shadows danced across the floorboards while shimmering ghosts slithered across the ceiling. At the heart of it all lurked the Mula, her form now shrouded in a thin veil of hazy energy. As Frederick's eyes strayed to the vampire, he found his breath catching in his chest. In the haze that now swamped his mind, the delicate creature's features were more defined, enhanced. Her eyes were now glowing with an almost angelic white hue, her lips full and warm, a rich scarlet that tantalised all who gazed upon her. Her raven locks seemed to curl a little differently, no sign of the dirty, uneven quality that they had borne before. Her flesh had lost its pale hue, now looking more pink, more human, healthier. The adept felt his blood pound through his veins, awakening unfamiliar desires within him.

Darren stood at the circle's edge, the two Sachs brothers, Otto and Fordalt, holding his shoulders, although their grips appeared to slacken as they looked to the Mula, similarly mesmerised. In between them, Darren stood proudly, arms folded as he regarded the Mula. For a moment, he appeared unmoved, his face remaining impassive, but then his eyes locked with those of the Mula.

The previously confident adept's features twitched, his stony resolve crumbling. In just one second, his expression cycled from one of brazen confidence, to faltering uncertainty, to a flicker of unsteady fear, and then finally dissolved into one of blissful enchantment, a broad grin splitting his features, his eyes growing misty. His cheeks flushed as his head tilted to one side, his stare locked with that of the vampire.

The Mula, seeing the adept so affected, returned the smile, although her features held a note of triumph in them, a slight gloating quality. She rose from her haunches, her hands once again roaming across her body as she took a sinuous step forward, a noticeable sway to her hips. Her hand reached up, entwining two of her fingers in her hair as she flirtatiously teased the adepts eyes with her own.

Darren's breathing grew heavy, rushed. With shaking fingers, the adept reached for his gambeson, awkwardly pulling at the straps to release the garment. As the Mula placed her foot at the edge of the circle, testing the air warily with her free hand, the adept struggled out of the padded overcoat, reaching down to grip the bottom of his shirt. As he did so, the vampire reached up to touch his cheek, stopping the young man. He froze, every muscle tensing at the touch. Slowly, inexorably, his head leaned into her palm, relishing the touch of her flesh. She rose onto the tips of her toes, bringing her face close to his. The adept parted his lips in anticipation, but she moved her head to the side, tilting away from his. She breathed deeply as she leaned in, closer and closer to his exposed neck. He closed his eyes, growling in anticipation. Finally, her jaws parted, revealing her pearl-like fangs. A moan of anticipation ripped free of her chest as she lunged forward. Frederick, along with the other students, found himself rooted, unable to avert his eyes even as the danger revealed itself.

Darren let out a yelp of terror as the fangs broke his skin, his eyes snapping open and losing their misty glamour as fear rose in his features. His cry of dismay snapped the watching adepts back to their senses, Otto and Fordalt grasping Darren firmly and dragging him back from the Mula. The vampire let out a howl of frustration, a hungering, furious roar as her prey was taken from her. In that moment, all pretence of beauty dropped from her features, her face contorting into a grimace of rage. Her eyes were black pits, her flesh turning withered and grey. The rest of her teeth, formerly so pearly and straight, transformed into long, jagged fangs, while in place of her fingers there were long, vicious claws.

Meinard darted between the students and the beast, flinging a hand out as magical energies swirled around him. His voice rang out, a single, commanding shout that made the very rafters shiver.

"YRDEN!"

The barrier sprang back into being, throwing the Mula back a few paces. She snarled, dashing at the circle. Her fists clenched, slamming into the magical wall, but the flash of violet energy that rose at her touch sent her reeling back. She paced the circle, shoulders heaving as she scanned the students, rage, frustration and more than a little disappointment in her movements. Finally, her motions slowed, the creature settling back down into her low squatting position as she realised there would be no breaking through the barrier, admitting defeat.

The students turned to Darren, still slumped between the two brothers. The young man clasped at his neck, where twin rivulets of blood could be seen colouring his shirt. He still breathed heavily, his eyes wide with fear as he sagged to the floor, propping his back against the wall as far from the Mula as he could get. In a flash, Meinard was beside him, grasping the student's chin with one hand, turning it to the side so he could examine Darren's wound.

"Barely broke the skin, no poison in the wound, scarcely any blood loss." He muttered dismissively. "You will be fine. Just leave it alone, and tell me if you experience any itching. A vampire's fangs are not the cleanest utensils, and infection is common with their bites."

Darren looked up at the Witcher, still drawing in deep gulps of air. Heedless of his distress, Meinard stood up, motioning for him to follow.

"Come, we must discuss what you experienced, while the events are still fresh in your mind."

He ushered the dazed adept over to the furthest corner of the room, where a pair of chairs waited, facing one another. He sat in one, waving a hand at the other one while looking pointedly at Darren. As the young man sat, the Witcher leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees as his fingertips pressed together before his pursed lips. His eyes fixed on the student, piercing in the gloom.

"Now, tell us what you saw, what you felt. Leave no details out." He commanded.

"It was-" Darren paused to take a breath, finally steadying himself. "It was unlike anything I've ever known. I thought- I'd hoped- that I would be strong enough to resist. I am a child of destiny, I should have been able to withstand!"

"Few Witchers have the strength to stand up to a dedicated attack from a vampire without years of training." Meinard answered. "Finding the power to rebuff a telepathic assault of this kind requires the kind of mental fortitude that only years of study can grant. Consider yourself lucky. A common mind would be torn asunder."

"Regardless, I thought I could at least try and resist any of her tricks." Darren spared a pensive look back to the circle, where the Mula watched him inquisitively. She let out a low moan, and he shivered in response. "When the barrier dropped, it was like a curtain fell across my mind. All rationale fell away, just replaced with thoughts of her. After that, it wasn't a case of trying to resist her. I didn't want to. The very idea of fighting wouldn't enter my mind."

"It's in the Mula's interests to remove all possibility of resistance from the victim." Meinard explained. "She needs to reduce the risk to herself while she feeds. But simply silencing your instinct to fight back is not enough. She also needs to make you welcome her, to open you up to her attack. She would have shown you things that generated this response. What did you see, in your mind's eye?"

"I saw... I saw many things. Many places I had been. Many people I had fond memories of. Many women I had spent time with. Even women from here, within the walls of Kaer Marter. And then, before the memories could truly fade, her face replaced all of those women. In moments, my mind was filled with her, and only her. No other woman existed, nor could they exist."

"The vampire at times presents themselves as something desirable, something the victim must attain to, something they cannot live without." Meinard gestured to the waiting Mula. "Once you are in their grip, you cannot imagine leaving. In this way, some of the higher creatures will ensnare lesser victims as pets, or possibly cattle. At times, the distinction is hard to perceive. There have been cases where vampires have perverted entire villages to their service, delaying any kind of feeding for years at a time. I suspect that in these cases the vampires find more joy in the exertion of control than in the actual feeding. Their minds are superior to ours, and their powers are such that finding a suitable victim to feast upon unnoticed would be all too easy for them. But conquest, the subjugation of entire swathes of the populace... These are things that can occupy even the swiftest of minds."

The Witcher continued, listing a few of the properties of mind control, of vampiric metabolism, and of the superstitions that had arisen in the peasant populace about how to ward them off, and how to kill them. But Frederick soon found the words blurring together, becoming muffled. A whisper called out to him, a shiver of sound that he could not place. He tried to ignore it, but the niggling presence within his brain persisted, pulling at him. He turned to glance over his shoulder, trying to find the source, and found himself glancing at the circle.

The Mula had turned her back on the students, instead looking to one of the shuttered windows, where a narrow crack allowed a single beam of radiant sunlight, a razor's edge of illumination, to cut down through the shadows to trace an arrow-straight line of white across the floorboards. Frederick found himself unable to avert his gaze.

How could one so beautiful be so dangerous?

The thought occupied his mind, blotting out all memory of her predatory glances, her hungry smiles, her piercing fangs. Instead, all he could do was appreciate her slight, delicate form, the pale, unblemished flesh, and the long, shimmering black hair. Seemingly unaware of his gaze, the Mula continued to gaze at the sealed window.

Would it be so bad, to yield to her charms?

The temptation gripped his heart. Even with the risks, surely the potential rewards would be worth it...

The Mula gazed at the light, shuffling to the very edge of the circle to get as close as possible. With a serpentine motion, her neck bent as she moved her head close to the floor, twisting in such a way as to look out of the narrow opening, to the sky beyond. A quiet, keening whimper escaped from her body, a pitiable call that gripped the former mage's apprentice by the heart.

Why did she need to be contained in so cruel a fashion?

A mixture of pity for the Mula and indignation against Meinard rose in his soul, battling with his hesitation to act. Vampire or not, the creature was a living being, and did not deserve to waste away in a cage.

The Mula tensed, turning around as though sensing his gaze for the first time. Her eyes locked with his, and within those orbs he saw much. Pain, suffering, longing, sadness, all mingled together to tell a tale of tragedy and heartbreak. Frederick found his breath siezing in his chest.

Couldn't she be free, just for a little while? Just to feel the leaves of the forest under her feet one more time?

The Mula slid across the floor, almost slithering on her belly. Her motions were silent, subtle, but full of intent. Frederick tried to swallow the lump in his throat, but his tongue was as dry as a desert, his lips scraping roughly against one another.

What harm could there be? A little creature like her, she posed no danger to anyone. Why, if someone were to take responsibility for her, to take pity upon her, to make her his charge...

Thoughts flowed unbidden into Frederick's mind. Scenarios and fantasies like none he had seen before. Carnal dreams and licentious delights of which he could only have imagined previously. And above all else, his role as a saviour of the oppressed beauty before him, a champion for the distressed, a hero. Nothing like the failure he had been before, the powerless apprentice who couldn't even cast a spell without-

The memory of the incident snapped his mind back to reality, the images of arcane flames and half-dreamed visions of devastation flooding his brain and drowning out all thoughts of heroism or lust. His mind resurfaced, as if ascending from the bottom of a deep pool of water, suddenly breaking the surface and gasping in deep breaths of clean, fresh air that cleansed his consciousness. With a sudden, sharp shock, he realised that barely any of the thoughts that had preceded that memory were his own, the marks of manipulation all over them instead. He glanced over to the Mula, seeing her features twist in frustration, her brows creasing as her lips folded in anger. The creature must have been able to form a tenuous connection even while her attention was focused on Darren, the lowered barrier allowing her access to the minds of others.

Frederick shook his head, dispelling the last few cobwebs that clung to his consciousness as he turned away from the creature, back to Master Meinard. For a moment, the Witcher's black gaze flashed over to the adept, and Frederick was certain that he had borne witness to the interaction between the former apprentice and the vampire, but he said nothing of it. Instead, he rose from his seat, rubbing his hands together.

"Now!" He exclaimed. "Any more volunteers?"

All were silent at his question, but after a moment's hesitation, the Skelliger, Hilda, raised a hand. She glanced over to the circle, hesitation still etching her features even as she spoke up.

"I would try it." She murmured, slowly, cautiously.

"Very well, get into position." Meinard nodded. "I'll need two more volunteers to help in the demonstration."

Ida and Cyrus stepped forward, to the Witcher's approval.

"Good. Let us begin."

The Mula watched warily as Hilda stepped up to the edge of the circle, Ida and Cyrus at either of her shoulders. Having seen the vampire attack, the young Skelliger was more cautious than Darren, no trace of the confidence that had filled his stance. Instead, fear traced her expression, a mixture of anxiety and something else. Behind the mask of fear, Frederick could see something else gleam in her eyes every time they alighted upon the Mula. A subtle, unspoken need that burned deep within her core. Even as uncertainty gripped her, that desire pushed her onwards.

A nod from the Witcher Master prompted Ida and Cyrus to tighten their grip on their comrade's arms, the trio preparing as Meinard moved next to the glowing runes. With a wave of his hand, the Witcher dismissed the barrier once more, and the psionic attack once again lashed out, like a wave of water escaping from a broken dam. This time, however, Frederick was ready for it, and did not succumb as easily as before. Instead, he turned his attention to Hilda, watching with interest.

The Skelliger's body froze as the barrier dropped, her nervous expression easing. Her breath siezed in her chest, her eyes growing wide as they locked with those of the Mula. The vampire once more began her slow approach, her eyes unblinking as she drew near. Hilda bit her lip, her hands twitching as she found herself transfixed. A helpless whimper escaped her throat, halfway between a sound of distress and one of lust.

Once more, the Mula drew close, a smile gracing her features. She leaned in close, her lips mere inches away from Hilda's own. She reached up, grasping the adept's head with both hands as she leaned in close, hovering a mere hair's breadth from the panting Skelliger's mouth, her lips pursing in response. She breathed deep, savouring the young woman's scent. Hilda's eyes, pleading, terrified, desperate, squeezed shut as she lost herself to the creature's domination.

The vampire's head darted to the side with inhuman speed, her fangs flashing once again, but this time the students were ready. Ida and Cyrus pulled Hilda free from the Mula's grasp before she could even squeak in surprise. The vampire jolted as once more she found her prey being torn from her claws, her facade of beauty slipping again as the beast beneath unveiled itself. Her fangs snapped at nothing as her fingernails stretched into terrible, vicious claws that scored long, faint red lines across the adept's face, Hilda grunting in pain, but more in surprise. The Mula swiped at the trio in rage, but Meinard was there in a blink, thrusting himself between the creature and his students. A firm strike from an open palm shoved her back, then his fingers traced a glittering trail in the air, a green glow escaping from his fingertips.

"AAXI!"

The command instantly stilled the air, rumblings of thunder behind his voice to lend it weight, his intentions impossible to deny.

The Mula seemed to turn to stone, her entire frame going still. Her face relaxed, the predatory features once again fading as her hungry expression was supplanted by one of placid calm. Her muscles loosened, poise easing as the weight of the Witcher's Sign settled upon her mind, removing all sense of threat from her stance. Meinard waved his hand again, and the creature obediently stepped back into the circle. Another gesture, and he raised the Yrden barrier once more before turning to Hilda.

"Let me see..." He twisted her head to the side, the student wincing in pain as he wrenched at her chin. After barely a second's inspection, he released her. "The fangs failed to pierce the skin. You will be fine. Just take a moment to regain your breath, then we will discuss what you saw."

He quietly but firmly ushered her over to the waiting chairs, seating her opposite himself as he resumed the position of interrogator. He regarded the adept with his cold eyes, stroking his clean-shaven chin ponderously.

"What did you see?" His question was direct, ignoring the adept's distress.

Hilda sat awkwardly in the chair, perching on the edge of the seat as she folded her shaking hands in front of her, shivering as if a biting winter's blizzard was tearing through the room. Her eyes darted to the side, glancing past the clustering Nightsabers and back to the circle. Her eyes hovered there for a long moment, before a stern grunt from Meinard dragged her attention back.

"Student! Pay attention, and answer my questions! What did you see? What did you feel?"

"I, uh..." Hilda swallowed. "She showed me many things. I saw all that she could offer me, and the things I might obtain with her at my side. I'd already found her intriguing when I first saw her, even more so after the barrier was lowered for the first experiment. Even so, I thought I could withstand her power, especially after seeing her attack Darren. I tried to keep the image of her attacking, of her fangs and claws, held firm in my mind as a bulwark against her power, but I just couldn't resist. When the magic came down, it was as though all other thoughts were torn from my grasp, and all I could do was look upon her. The longer I looked at her, the more I wanted her. She was just... so... perfect. Her eyes, her skin, her lips..."

The young woman trailed off, once again turning to look at the circle, but frustrated by the press of bodies blocking her view. She shook herself, seeming to shed the confusion that plagued her.

"So, once again, the Mula used her sexuality, her beauty, to lure in her prey." Meinard pointed out. "Even with different prey, a similar stratagem was used. Tell me, student, have you ever experienced homosexual tendencies before? Would you normally pursue a relationship, physical or otherwise, with one such as her?"

"I mean..." Hilda shifted uncomfortably. "I had considered it... there were times when... But I never acted upon those feelings before!"

"Few have, before they meet the Mula." Meinard nodded. "It is incredible how often such locked-away fantasies reveal themselves in her presence. Tell me, student, was there anything more?"

"Yes, there was more." Hilda shifted uncomfortably. "I saw my home, the islands of my birth. She showed me my father's throne, and I saw myself sitting there, with her at my side. All the other Jarls approached me, seeking to bend the knee... and I wanted it, so terribly! I don't understand, I've never plotted against my father before!"

"And that leads us to a very pertinent question." Meinard raised a finger, underlining his point. "Did the Mula plant the seeds of these thoughts in your mind, or did she simply unlock something already there within you? Can she create new thoughts, write out a script for your consciousness to follow, or does she merely lower your inhibitions, unleash what you keep tied up within you? This is a question that has troubled us Witchers since we discovered the vampiric races." He raised his arms in a broad shrug as he turned to the circle of students. "There is no easy way to find the answer."

The students stood in silence, heads lowered as they pondered Meinard's words.

"How can we reinforce ourselves against these magics?" Darren asked.

"Another excellent question!" Meinard rose to his feet, stepping through the cluster of students. "How do we protect ourselves against such attacks, when a vampire could quite literally turn our own thoughts against us, transform us into our own worst enemies? The answer to that is simple-training."

The Mula, still trapped within the barrier, stood at Meinard's approach, smiling lasciviously at him. She twirled one of her raven tresses coyly, eyes gazing out from beneath fluttering eyelids.

"There are some Witchers who practice the art of Aaxi, trying to counter a vampire's attack before it even begins by enfeebling the vampire's mind. Others will use certain practices of Quen to reinforce their consciousness, shielding their thoughts. Still others simply expose themselves to a vampire's manipulations, hoping to build up a resistance. They will chain themselves to a chair outside of a vampire's cage, sometimes for hours at a time, and allow themselves to endure a vampire's control. Some endure, others lose their minds."

The Witcher paced back and forth in front of the Mula's circle.

"Of course, even then, there is no guarantee of safety." He turned to face the vampire, folding his arms across his chest. "Even the most experienced of Witchers can fall victim to... can..."

His words trailed off as he locked his gaze with that of the Mula. He paused, tilting his head quizzically at the creature. She smiled at this, tilting her head in turn. To the students' amazement, the Master's expression softened, a smile spreading across his gaunt features. With a wave of his hand, he dismissed the barrier, much to the consternation of the adepts.

Frederick braced himself for the onslaught of telepathic energy that he was sure would come, but to his surprise no such attack came. With a start, he realised that the Mula was paying no heed to any of the students, all of her energy poured into attracting the Witcher before her. To his shock, the Master seemed to have fallen under her spell, stepping into the circle.

Frederick tensed, uncertain what to do. Around him, he could see the other students similarly preparing to spring into action. Meinard took another step, now looming over the Mula. His smile grew even wider as she raised a hand to cradle his cheek, leaning in with pursed lips.

Just as Frederick summoned the presence of mind to shout a warning, the Witcher's smile grew cruel, a sharp curve at its corner betraying his intent as a clenched fist whipped through the air, connecting with the Mula's jaw with a meaty smack. The frail creature tumbled to the floor, an anguished cry in her throat. She threw a venomous glance at the Witcher, a snarl revealing her fangs. Her muscles tensed, and she leapt to her feet, making to lunge at Meinard again, but the Witcher was faster, raising a defensive hand.

"AAXI!"

The command bellowed out again, and all signs of resistance from the Mula vanished. Her hands dropped to her sides as her head lowered meekly, her growls falling into silence. Meinard stepped forward, placing a finger under her chin, lifting her head as he once again smiled that cruel smile.

"As you can see, I have much experience resisting her charms. She has no power over me, but she has yet to fully learn that lesson."

Still propping her chin upon his finger, he led the vampire from the circle, dragging her past the watching students. As they walked past Frederick, the student noted the glassy look in the creature's eyes, the after effect of the Aaxi Sign. But beyond that, deep within those orbs, he could see something that deeply troubled him. Not anger, nor hunger, nor even fear of the Witcher who controlled her. Instead, all the former apprentice could see within her gaze was the fading light of defeat, of resignation. At seeing that, he began to feel pity for the creature once more, but this time, there was no magical manipulation behind the emotion. No, this time, it was genuine.

Meinard led the suddenly docile vampire to the far corner of the room, where he produced a stick of chalk from one of his belt pouches, tracing a smaller, although no less elaborate, magical circle around her feet. Another wave of his hand and a barked command raised a second magical barrier around her, and the Mula slumped to her knees, looking up at the Witcher with bleak eyes, a long, low moan of sadness tearing loose from her very soul. Meinard, with nary a word, turned his back on her, striding away in silence as the vampire's distressed keening followed him.

Oblivious to his prisoner's anguished cries, the Witcher strode over to stand within the larger circle once more, a sharp cough drawing the attention of his students.

"Now, that's enough on mind control." He proclaimed. "Let's talk about cursed ones."


	9. Chapter 9- Cursed Ones

The study was deathly silent. Meinard shuffled around the circle, stretching down to add lines to the runes scrawled on the floorboards. The barrier before him shimmered as the magical energies twisted, strengthening and fading with every scratch. In the centre of the circle, the wooden box that had been present throughout the lesson remained, ominous in its silent weight. White fumes continued to seep from underneath the lid, wisps of milky fog that swirled across the wooden floor within the circle. Frederick found his eyes drawn to the churning haze, his mind growing numb as he watched the rippling eddies. In those errant shapes, he felt that he could see many half-imagined things, grasping hands, writhing snakes, a screaming maw. He shuddered, trying to pull his gaze away.

The rest of the students stood awkwardly in a line, watching the Master work. Most of them remained for fixated on what was before them, but two appeared to be quite distracted. Darren and Hilda were finding it hard to focus. The young many shifted uncomfortably, his hands entwined together in an awkward knot. Meanwhile, the young Skelliger kept reaching up to rub at her temple, eyes creasing in discomfort at some invisible irritation. Both would frequently try to sneak a surreptitious glance over their shoulders, back to where the Mula lurked in the corner of the room, but their efforts were not as subtle as they thought, many of their fellow Nightsabers well aware of their almost obsessive fascination with the creature. Frederick made a mental note to speak to the pair later. In their current state, he felt a measure of concern for them.

Meinard straightened from his work, letting out a satisfied sigh. He turned to face his students, bringing his hands together with a sharp, sudden clap.

"Excellent! Let us begin." He rubbed his palms together in anticipation. "Now, students, tell me- do you know anything of cursed ones?"

He looked from face to face, his eager expression being met with several of blank confusion.

"No?" He suppressed a chuckle. "Oh, it has been so long since I have had such unshaped clay to work with!" He began to pace in front of the barrier again, his hands moving in small, sharp motions to underline his words. "There are many curses that you will encounter in your hunts. Those that afflict people, places, items... Some magical in nature, others brought about by destiny. Sometimes they will cause crops to wither, or calves to be born lame, or for a plague to ravage the surrounding land. And sometimes... sometimes they will manifest in the form of powerful creatures. Many of the most cunning, dangerous foes you will face will have a curse attached to them, and often the curse will give them strength beyond anything you would face otherwise."

He gestured to the wooden box, which Frederick now realised was more coffin-like in nature, although the heavy metal clasp that served to hold the lid in place spoke of a different kind of occupant to a simple peasant's corpse.

"The wraith is one of the most common cursed creatures that you will find. There are certain sub-types, from the ethereal noonwraiths, moonwraiths, penitents and banshees, to the more corporeal creatures, such as what I have stored within this crate. In the end, they all possess a common truth at the heart of their nature- they are all, ultimately, the cursed spirits of the dead, bound to this plane in their various forms. Some remain trapped within their bodies, limiting them in how they can move about or interact with the world. Others fly free of their remains, making them almost impossible to contain, and yet they are still tethered, either to their remains or the site of their death, or even an item tied closely to their demise.

"The specimen contained within this crate was once a knight who disobeyed his Lord, becoming a savage mercenary, little more than a bandit. He killed many innocents in his time, until eventually he was captured by some of his former knightly brethren. After his arrest, he was put on trial and executed, but before he was beheaded, he swore vengeance on the jurors who convicted him. Thus, his corpse now walks again, driven by his vow."

The box rattled, lid straining as something pushed against it from inside. A guttural rumble escaped from within.

"So, how do we deal with this creature?" Meinard asked. "How can you deal with a wraith? Ideas?"

The Nightsabers were silent for a moment, deep in thought. Otto was the first to speak up.

"Well, if it is a corporeal wraith, then you just destroy the body, surely?"

"You can try." Meinard conceded. "And sometimes, that will be enough to break the curse and put the spirit to rest. But most of the time, that will simply reduce the wraith to an ethereal form. And such a beast is not so easily beaten into submission. So, instead of removing the threat, you may find that you have in fact made it even more potent. So, any other suggestions?"

"Signs?" The young Merinea suggested.

"A good idea, but Signs, much like a sword, are limited in their applications." The Witcher explained. "You are all thinking only of the direct course, of combating the wraith himself. Remember, he is only the symptom of the true problem."

"We need to deal with the curse itself." Ida said, her eyes gleaming with realisation.

"Yes!" Meinard pointed a claw-like finger at her. "Very good. While the curse remains, the wraith will continue to resurface, no matter how many times you destroy its form. So, how do we break the curse of our dear friend in the crate there?"

"We'd have to sever its tie to this world." Darren observed. "Give it no reason to remain."

"Correct." Meinard nodded. "There have been instances of powerful magics being used to banish wraiths without resolving their curses, but these are rare events, involving much sacrifice and more power than is truly practical. The more practical method is to find what ties them to this world and sever that bond."

"But in this case, the wraith desires vengeance on his jury." Colin remarked. "The men who had him executed."

"Indeed. There were five jurors who presided over his trial."

"So to allow his curse to be resolved and his vow fulfilled..." Frederick trailed off. Meinard nodded sympathetically.

"Yes, those five would have to die. Five innocent lives to remove this evil from the world. Now you see the challenge that cursed ones will often put before you."

"That can't possibly be the only option." Ida commented.

"It's not." Meinard admitted. "But it is the only thorough solution. All other attempts to pacify or banish the wraith would be temporary at best. The only way to guarantee he does not return would require the deaths of his five jurors. Now, the question is, could you do it? Could you pay that price in order to put the wraith to rest?"

"No." Merinea said quickly. "How could anyone justify that?"

"Quite simply, adept." Meinard answered. "You see, in the time this wraith has roamed forth from his grave site, he has killed twenty six peasants. Woodcutters, hunters, travelling merchants, the son of a local duke. There is quite a bounty attached to the wraith, and quite obviously, if allowed to go unchecked, he will continue to claim the lives of others. At what point are those lives outweighed by the innocence of the five jurors? At what point do you feel that the honour of keeping those men alive ceases to matter in the face of so much bloodshed?"

The students were silent, unable to answer. Frederick turned the question over in his mind, unable to find solace in either answer. Meinard looked to each of the adepts, seeing the same struggle in each solemn expression.

"This is what we train you for here- to make the difficult decisions that a Witcher must. To have the fortitude to choose the dark path no matter the cost, be it innocence, honour, blood or gold. To do what must be done."

"Would there be some way to fulfil the curse without killing the jurors?" Hilda asked slowly, deliberately.

"Excellent question!" Meinard steepled his fingers before his mouth, pursing his lips. "Many magics can be exploited in certain ways. Loopholes lurk within the wording of these enchantments like worms burrowing through the heart of a rotten apple. You are no doubt familiar with legends of wishes and blessings going awry due to a poor choice of words. More of them are true than you would suspect.

"It could be possible to fool the wraith, to convince it that the demands of the curse have been met, but this is a complex thing to accomplish. There are legends of curses being lifted by involving those attached to it in a theatrical performance, carrying out the terms of the curse in a make-believe or something of the like. But these performances must seem real to all involved. There can be no hint to them that the events are anything less than truth."

"What about if we brought the jurors to the threshold of death, then brought them back across?" Ragodar mused. "I have heard tell of some herbs that can halt the heart for a short while, but keep the spirit within the body."

"A possibility." Meinard nodded. "But the person who 'kills' them must believe they are dead. If he is to try and command the spirit to leave, he must believe that the curse has been fulfilled truthfully. The magics will be sensitive to his emotions, and any hint of deception will undo any power he might have over the wraith."

"So..." The Redanian continued. "You could perhaps hire two individuals, their roles a secret from one another. One could be hired to kill the jurors through use of poison, but the second could administer an antidote in his wake, bringing them back before their spirits truly depart. The first, then, unaware that the jurors survived, could come to declare the terms of the curse have been met and dismiss the wraith."

"A good plan." Meinard admitted. "A delicate one, but good nonetheless. The challenges you'd face would be of timing. The antidote would have to be administered before death of the brain, but not before the wraith was dismissed. If the jurors' hearts began to beat again before the wraith was fully banished, then the magics could detect this and the wraith may not be defeated." He shrugged. "Not the simplest plan, but a good compromise for a difficult situation."

The Witcher Master turned, pacing towards his desk. He reached behind it to where a pair of swords hung on the wall, pulling them down. He turned, fixing his eye upon the brothers from Velen. One by one, he tossed a sword to Otto and Fordalt, the brothers catching the weapons deftly from the air.

"You two will go first." He said coldly. "While we may not be able to banish the wraith, you do need to learn how to fight one. I will open the crate, and you will fight it. Study the way it moves, the way it responds to you. Strike out at it, get a sense for its weak points. Then, push it back. In the far corner, you will see a smaller ring of runes of Yrden. Drive the wraith back into this ring, and I will trap it." He glanced around at the other students. "I will need two volunteers to assist me in casting the Sign."

His eyes swivelled to the remaining adepts, immediately settling upon Frederick before switching to Ragodar.

"You and you." He pointed. "Step over here. Controlling these runes of Yrden will require more power and precision than one caster can muster, so you shall help me to control the barrier. When I give the command, cast the Yrden Sign to lower the barrier, and then again on the smaller circle once the wraith has been pushed back." He raised a silencing finger as Frederick opened his mouth in protest."I understand that you have not been shown all of the techniques required for Signcasting, but I will be here alongside you. Just follow my lead, focus on the word of command and the gestures that I perform, and mirror them. I will draw up the magical leylines and cause their energies to flow through your actions, giving you the power to act. Your focus and will shall add strength to my casting."

The students nodded solemnly. Frederick, a knot of tense anxiety tying and untying itself in his gut, moved to where Meinard pointed, Merinea taking up a position on the opposite side of the Master. The brothers gripped their swords, mixtures of anxiety and anticipation evident in their faces. The others, a motley array of worried faces crowded against the far wall, watching, waiting. Then, with a swift motion, Meinard lifted his hand, gnarled fingers pointing to the barrier. All present held their breath.

"YRDEN!"

The hand dropped, and the barrier with it.


	10. Chapter 10- The Wraith

The shimmering violet curtain evaporated with the Witcher's gesture, releasing a torrent of chilled air to wash over the waiting students. Frederick suppressed a shudder as he felt the magical energies of the Yrden Sign release, flowing into himself, Merinea and Meinard as the Master let them loose, the power seeking the nearest possible way to seep back into the world. In that moment, the young apprentice felt his senses heighten, connecting to a world that had previously been cut off. He sensed the magical leylines that surged around him, connecting him to the runes inscribed on the floor, to the timid young Merinea, similarly awed by the flush of energy, to the luminous pillar of power that was Master Meinard, a brilliant star of energy hanging from his neck, and to the creature within the box.

Inside the crate, the coffin, to put a more suitable name on it, the monster that had once been a man waited, his entire being boiling with malevolence. Frederick sensed the magics that tied him to the world, binding his spirit in physical form, a black, swirling vortex of eldritch energies that dragged at the adept's soul. The very presence of the beast sapped at his stamina, draining his vital essence. Frederick realised that, without the protection of the runes, anyone untrained in the appropriate defences would soon find himself exhausted, vulnerable. This feeling only grew as the lock on the box, previously secure, glowed with a faint purple light that quickly faded at Meinard's command.

As the runes of Yrden brightened then dimmed on the wrought iron, the struggles of the monster renewed, intensifying as his awareness of the weakened restraints grew. The lid of the coffin shuddered under a mighty blow, a terrible growl escaping from within.

Standing at the edge of the circle, Otto and Fordalt shifted their grips on their swords, trying to maintain a ready stance. They watched the trembling crate with trepidation.

With a mighty roar, the wraith heaved against his prison, his bull-like strength ramming against the wood again and again. The lock, formerly so steadfast in its duty, slowly, slowly twisted under the assault. The metal stretched, strained, struggled, then with a final groan it gave way, snapping apart. The lid slammed open, clattering to the floor behind the coffin.

More white mist poured from the open coffin, followed by a black-gloved hand. The weathered leather glove was dull with age, cracked from years, perhaps even decades of use. The covered fingers curled around the edge of the coffin, creaking as the knuckles resisted the motion. A groaning, drawn-out sigh escaped from within, then the beast hauled his hulking frame into view.

The wraith was tall, his shoulders reaching higher than most men's heads, save perhaps for Master Njall. He was clad entirely in black, from the leather of his boots to the gloves, while a broad, flowing cloak draped over his shoulders and reached down to the floor. His body was wrapped in several layers of black cloth, the arrangement of which put Frederick in mind of the wraps one would normally apply to an embalmed corpse before it is entombed. Encircling his waist, a broad leather belt sported some kind of crest, perhaps a coat of arms or a family insignia. Hanging from it, a long sword with an elegant hilt shone, in surprisingly good condition compared to the rest of his apparel. As Frederick looked on, he noted an aura glowing around the blade, a strange glimmer of white light that betrayed an ethereal quality to the weapon, as though it weren't entirely there.

The most striking feature of the wraith, however, was the bloody stump of a neck that protruded above the shoulders. As explained by Meinard, the head had been removed entirely, leaving a ragged, raw stump. The open maw of the cut throat wheezed as stale air was pulled in and expelled. The bone of the spinal cord jutted out past the mouldering flesh, discoloured a diseased yellow where it met the air. Crusty, dry blood flaked off from the open wound, while deep within the open flesh Frederick suspected that he caught sight of maggots, writhing, gnawing, slithering.

The next thing to reveal itself to the students after the wraith's terrifying visage was the horrific smell. The odour of rancid, ancient meat and musty clothing surged through their nostrils, a heavy, cloying smell that clung to the backs of their throats and made even the strongest constitutions wither. A couple of the adepts swayed unsteadily at the stench, barely keeping their feet as a swoon threatened to overwhelm them.

The wraith staggered free of the coffin, his shoulders heaving as he drew in long, watery breaths through the opening in his neck. A gurgling roar escaped from his chest as his hand grasped the hilt of his weapon, drawing it and turning to the students with an awareness that one wouldn't expect from something missing so many of its sensory organs. Frederick assumed that its awareness had to come from a more arcane source, rather than simple eyes and ears.

Before the young apprentice could study the beast any further, the brothers from Velen charged past him, racing into the circle with their blades raised. Otto thrust his way to the fore, his weapon slicing through the air with vicious intent.

The wraith's weapon rose with inhuman speed, blocking the attack to the surprise of the young man. A grunt echoed the creature's motions as it shoved against the locked blades, pushing the adept back. Otto stumbled back a little, his weight settling onto his back foot. The wraith shifted his grip, making ready to further exploit the advantage that he had opened up, but, in a flash, Fordalt was there, harassing its flank with a few jabs. The beast rumbled in protest, turning his attention from one adept to the other. His blade disengaged from Otto's, tracing a silvery arc as it sought his brother, but Fordalt was quick enough to dance backwards, narrowly avoiding the lethal tip.

The duo took a step back, rethinking their strategy, but the monster was unwilling to give them even a second to think, charging forward. The pair responded by raising their weapons, points out to hinder the creature's sides. The wraith groaned, backing away as the brothers pressed their attacks. His sword lashed out wildly, keeping his two attackers at bay, but the attacks were erratic, unrefined, with no real plan behind them. Instead, the wraith put his full brute force behind the strokes, lashing out with blows of bone-shattering power.

The wraith drew his sword back to strike again, and in the ever-so-brief lull in the engagement, the two brothers glanced to one another. Otto twitched his head, raising his chin, and Fordalt nodded in response. That mere moment was all the brothers needed before darting forward, one dodging to the right while the other dashed left. They flanked the creature, Fordalt dropping into a crouch as his blade flicked at the monster's knees. Otto, meanwhile, went high, driving the point of his blade at the wraith's heart.

The weapon scraped across bone, a sound like fingernails on a chalkboard screeching through the air as Otto's blade etched a line down one of the beast's ribs before jolting to the side awkwardly. For just a moment, Frederick imagined that he could see a glowing aura surround the wraith, a grey-white flickering shadow that wrestled with the weapon, knocking it a hair to the side and away from such a vital point. The unnatural way Otto's arm twisted as he struggled to keep a grip of the sword's hilt spoke of some unseen force acting on the blade.

The twins pressed their attack and slowly began to drive the creature back, even with the invisible barrier taking the bite out of their attacks. When one went in high, the other warrior would swing low, catching the wraith as it sought to defend against the first attack. Ever so slowly, step by step, the beast fell back under the assault.

Frederick and Merinea tensed as one booted foot stepped back across the boundary of the smaller magic circle. The pair readied themselves, sensing Meinard do the same at their shoulders. The mage's apprentice grew still.

Even with an inkling of what to expect, Frederick was still caught utterly off-guard when the magic flowed into him, surging up through his feet as the arcane ley-lines converged on him. His entire body crackled with the power, every nerve ablaze with what felt like raw excitement, anticipation and exuberance made tangible. Then, when he felt like he couldn't take any more and his very skin would burst from trying to contain the energy, Frederick heard Meinard give the command.

"YRDEN!"

The trio gestured, and the barrier flared into being with a brilliant flash, throwing the wraith back into the centre of the circle. The monster tried to move back towards its assailants, but violet fire crackled around it, eliciting a groan of torment from the gruesome prisoner. The beast shook in rage, sword tip lashing at the magical wall in a futile gesture.

Meinard stepped forward, interposing himself between the wraith and the students. His hands slapped together as he paced, his fingers knotting together while he pursued his lips.

"An excellent display, students! Did you note the way that the wraith's ethereal essence interfered with your attacks? Due to the fact that a wraith is not a wholly physical being, magical energy flows around it differently, and thus the real world behaves unusually in response. Arrows can be turned aside completely, blades will twist and squirm in your hands, flames can turn icy cold, and even your Signs will have a negligible or perhaps reversed effect.

"Even when your attacks do land, they will often have their impact lessened. See how the flesh wounds you inflicted are already healing over? The nature of the curse keeping the wraith among the living will keep on restoring the body to a condition where it can operate. A wound that would normally be fatal is soon healed, while minor scrapes and cuts will not heal quickly, or perhaps even at all."

"So... how can we fight a wraith at all?" Darren challenged. "If it can shrug off even the strongest sword thrust, what do we do?"

"Well, as you saw, the creature is not immune to pain." Meinard explained. "Slicing at a limb or stabbing it through the chest will still elicit a response. In fact, it is often the nature of curses to enhance the pain and suffering of the creature, frequently pushing them into madness. At times, this can be enough to dismiss them, at least temporarily. If they endure enough pain, this can sometimes cause their spirit to lose focus and their form will decay. An ethereal wraith will vanish entirely, while a physical wraith such as this one will fall into a lifeless heap. However, it will not take long for the spirit to return and resume its roaming. Defeating a cursed one through physical force is only ever a temporary solution. As I said before, the only true resolution to the issue is to end the curse."

The Master strode over to the two brothers, taking the blades from them.

"A good display, students." He commended. "Now, who will be next?"

Another pair of students stepped forward, Ida and Cyrus, taking the blades from Meinard. With a nod of his head, he bade Merinea join the others.

"You have done well in casting the Sign, adept. Regain your strength, the act of casting can be taxing, especially on the uninitiated."

Frederick made a move to join the others, but the Witcher raised a hand to bar his way.

"Not you. I want you to stay here and cast again."

"Master?" The young adept asked curiously.

"Think of it as part of the experiment." Meinard replied with a shrug. He pointed to another student. "You, come join us at the edge of the circle." He didn't even wait for the other student, this time the stoic Krenai, to follow his instruction. Instead, he turned to face the wraith again. "Now, let us begin again."

~o~0~o~

The day had grown long, the first few glimmers of sunset filtering through what gaps in the windows they could. Inside, the students still performed the repetitive exercise of stepping up to the circle and doing battle with the wraith. Time and again, the beast sought to bull through the waiting adepts, sword slashing wildly, and time and again it was beaten back and contained within the magic circle once more. Time and again, Frederick found himself casting the Yrden Sign at Meinard's side, a different adept assisting them each time.

The former mage's apprentice had lost count of how many times he had raised and lowered the magical barrier around the monster, each time becoming more draining than the last. His pulse raced, his nerves burned and his muscles twitched from the strain, the magical power flowing through him exacting an enormous toll, even with the support of a Master at his side. Sweat trickled down the nape of his neck, tracing a languorous route along his spine as he suppressed a shiver.

As the adepts kept on tackling the wraith, over and over, Frederick noticed the Witcher Master stepping further and further back, allowing his students to handle the experiment without his support. Frederick cast a sidelong glance at the Master, noting that he was paying more attention to the adepts than the monster, his narrowed, dark eyes watching them all with analytical interest. The former mage's apprentice felt as though the demonstration was being used for more than just instruction, Meinard using the opportunity to gauge the abilities of the students in his charge and evaluate them. For what purpose, Frederick could only guess, but he found it unnerving how intent of an interest the unusual Witcher showed in the young adept whenever he was casting the Yrden Sign, the dark eyes each time fixing upon him with that cold, emotionless detachment.

Finally, just when Frederick thought that tapping into the arcane energies of the Sign would bring him to his knees, Meinard called a halt to the experiment, much to the adept's relief. The wraith, covered in small cuts and scratches, growled in fury at being confined again, still pacing behind the barrier. Meinard ignored this, drawing the attention of the students to himself.

"That is all we will have time for today. Remember what you have seen here, students. These are dangerous creatures, and merely a taste of the perils you will meet out on the hunt. Should you have any further questions, come and see me. But for the time being, you are dismissed."

The gathered adepts relaxed, the air of tense attentiveness dissolving as the Witcher turned his back on them, leaning over his desk to read some pieces of parchment scattered there. A couple of students moved over to speak with him, the others shuffling towards the door as they began to chatter amongst themselves.

Frederick felt the tension leave his body as his focus eased, no longer needing to concentrate on the magical energy around him. He felt Meinard's previous connection fade, the Witcher's support in helping the adept find the arcane webs of the Yrden barrier vanishing with alarming speed. Frederick took those final moments to observe the details of the magical circle, committing the designs and placement of the runes to memory while also holding on to the inner sensations that casting the Sign had left him with, the mental gestures needed to channel the eldritch command. He knelt down, holding a hand over one rune briefly, watching as the purple energy of the barrier twisted around his fingers. Then, after all too short a time, his link to the Master was gone, and with it his ability to tap into that ethereal realm. The runes of the circle became once more inane scribblings in chalk, and the violet hues of the barrier lost their lustre. Sighing at the loss of sensation, Frederick got to his feet.

As he turned, he noted one of the students had strayed away from the pack. Hilda, still seeming somewhat out of sorts, had strayed over to the secondary magic circle, within which the Mula now lurked. The vampire, sensing the scrutiny, had turned to face the young woman, toying with her hair coyly as she smiled invitingly. Hilda, meanwhile, trembled with some kind of barely contained emotion, her cheeks flushed as she stared at the monster. She jumped, stifling a squeak of surprise, as Frederick placed a hand on her shoulder.

"Are you alright, my lady?" He asked tentatively.

"Uh... yes, I'm fine!" She managed between hurried breaths. "I'm fine. I just... never mind. And don't call me 'your lady'. I am no one's lady."

"As you wish, my la- Hilda." Frederick caught himself. He glanced over to the Mula, noting her predatory gaze, more focused on the woman than on him. "She is a fascinating creature, is she not?"

"Yes... she is..." As Hilda turned to face the vampire, her voice grew faint. The Mula flashed her another gleaming white smile, a purr of invitation in her throat. The Skelliger flushed at the gesture, her eyes darting away in embarrassment.

"I would be interested to know if there have been other examples of mind control." Frederick tried to draw the young woman's attention away from the vampire. "I believe I have seen similar effects before, although not from a vampire."

"Oh?" Hilda glanced to him with interest.

"Yes, during my time with Master Travis, I... was controlled once. Not by a creature, but by a book. It forced me to cast a spell that..." Frederick paused, the words catching as he remembered the incident. "That almost cost me everything I had."

"I see." Hilda nodded. "Perhaps we can talk to Meinard together? I am keen to learn more myself."

Frederick nodded, gesturing for the young woman to lead the way. As he stepped in line behind her, he glanced to the circle, only to catch a glimpse of the Mula, glaring at him. Her eyes sparkled with ferocity, frustration at having her prey be taken away from her obvious in the twist of her lips. The young apprentice suppressed a shudder, turning away.


	11. Chapter 11- Harlaw

Mist clung to the forest, a memento of the chills of the night. The last few cloth-like tendrils caressed the roots of the trees, the early morning sun just offering enough heat to burn them off. A gentle breeze danced through the treetops, casting a few leaves free of their tethers to drift down to the forest floor.

The students had been summoned out to this remote clearing at the heart of the woodlands well before sunrise, Njall rousing them from their slumber and ushering them out of the castle's doors before any of the other students had begun to rise. They hadn't been told anything about their purpose out there, the looming Skelliger avoiding their curious questions. As they'd filed into the clearing, they found themselves face to face with one of the Masters of the Wolf School, the Witcher known as Harlaw. The quiet Master knelt at the centre of the clearing, dewdrops of the rising morning glistening on his shoulders as he closed his eyes and bowed his head, features serene as he focused inwards. Frederick found himself wondering just how long the Master had been out there, waiting for them. Had he endured an entire night, out in the wilds, a lone man versus the elements? The young student got the impression that such a feat would be no challenge to the Witcher before him.

Harlaw was silent for a few moments while the students gathered around him. Eventually, his eyes opened, and the Wolven Master regarded the students before him. He silently nodded to Njall, and the Master of the Nightsabers departed. Without a word, Harlaw gestured for the adepts to gather around. As Frederick dropped to his knees, he felt the damp chill of the dew underfoot, fallen leaves crackling as he shifted awkwardly. He suppressed a shiver, wishing he'd had a chance to grab some food before leaving the castle, or at least something hot to drink to help keep the frigid air of the dawn at bay. All these thoughts vanished, though, when Harlaw began to speak, the stern Wolf commanding the full attention of all present.

"Greetings, students." He voice, although smooth and low, held a power behind it that could not be underestimated. "I am Harlaw. Your Grand Master has asked of me to share some of my knowledge with you, to help you meet the challenges you will encounter out on the Path. I can teach you to face and overcome the biggest threats any Witcher will inevitably face out on the hunt."

His eyes danced from one student to the next, piercing gaze weighing each of them up carefully.

"Tell me, what do you think kills more Witchers than anything else?"

The Nightsabers hesitated for a moment, pondering his question. Eventually a couple of voices spoke up.

"Fiends."

"Vampires."

"Kikimora?"

"Bandits."

Harlaw listened to the stream of answers, shaking his head at every one.

"Wrong. The true killer of Witchers is something more subtle, and yet just as hazardous." He paused, tilting his head as he raised an eyebrow, a ghost of a smirk haunting his features. "Hunger. Thirst. Tiredness. Cold. Heat. Rain. Any other number of things that the natural world will throw against you. These are the first enemies you must vanquish, and all too often the ones that a Witcher forgets to pay heed to. A hungry Witcher cannot strike as powerfully. A tired, thirsty Witcher cannot focus. A cold Witcher will move slowly. You will not always have the feather pillows and warm hearth of a castle to sustain you. There will be times when a village will refuse to offer you shelter, or a baron will cast you out of his lands once your work is done. All too often the gold a contract earns will not go far enough to keep you housed through a bad winter. What will you do then? How will you make sure you survive to see the next bounty? That is where my speciality lies- in finding the tools for your survival in the world around you."

He stood, tilting his head from side to side with an audible crack.

"The first thing you must learn- making a fire. This is key to surviving long-term in the wilderness. You need to know how to make a decent fire in even the wettest of conditions. Once I am done teaching you, you will be able to set a fire in the middle of a lake. Now, go find some firewood. An armful of branches each will be sufficient."

At the Witcher's bidding, the group scattered, heading out to scour the woods for fuel. Frederick soon found himself knee-deep in the brush, his boots squelching as they found a thin layer of mud under the fallen leaves. He glanced about quickly, soon spotting a promising looking tangle of branches. He reached down, grasping the thickest bough he could find, and gave it a mighty heave.

The former mage's apprentice fell backwards as the branch offered no resistance, instead crumbling in his fingers, fibrous, rotten clumps ripping free in his grasp. The adept cursed under his breath, hastily rubbing his hand on his breeches to clean off some of the damp splinters that still clung to his skin. He turned at a loud chortle behind him.

Harlaw stood propped against a nearby tree trunk, lazily surveying the woodlands as his students began their harvest. An axe balanced between his hands, dancing merrily in the morning light as he turned it over casually.

"You'll not be making a fire out of that mess anytime soon." The Witcher advised. "Try to avoid anything that's even partly sunk into the mud. Chances are, it's been there long enough to become damp and useless."

With a shrug, the Master stood up, taking a few steps away from the tree. He reached down with a hand, gently pulling a smaller branch free of the knot of leaves that had almost completely covered it.

"Here. Listen." With a swing, he rapped the branch against the tree trunk, summoning forth a loud tok tok tok sound that bounced off the nearby trees. "You hear that? When a branch is good and dry, it sounds hollow, like an empty barrel. Those are the ones you want for a good, smokeless fire. When a branch is too wet, like this one- " Stowing his axe, he pulled another stick from the underbrush, offering the same demonstration. "It sounds much more dull, like a full barrel. That's the water you can hear inside."

Frederick tilted his head to listen, picking up on the subtle difference as the branch released a much more muted tnk tnk noise. He nodded his understanding. Harlaw, seeing his lesson sinking in, shifted his grip on each stick, tossing them to the adept one after the other.

"Now, feel the weight in each of these. Wet wood will be much heavier than dry. That's why it's always a good idea to keep your fuel dry. You will tire out much faster hauling a sack of wet firewood around." He pulled the axe from his belt again, twisting it to offer the handle to Frederick. "Here. You will have a far easier time gathering with the right tools to hand."

The young Witcher hopeful accepted the proffered tool and returned to his task with gusto, keen to impress the knowledgeable Master.


	12. Chapter 12- Survival

Beads of sweat wriggled their way down Frederick's temples, collecting in the corners of his eyes where they burned with salty venom. He blinked away the fiery orbs, trying to keep his focus on the task in front of him.

It hadn't taken long for the assembled adepts to gather in small clusters, working together to apply Master Harlaw's lessons. Frederick found himself in the company of Colin, the former squire, Darren, the ever confident "Child of Destiny", and the diminutive, soft-spoken Merinea. Following Harlaw's guidance, they'd amassed a considerable pile of firewood, carving it into progressively smaller fragments, and assembled a basic framework for a campfire. Several longer sticks, tied together, created a pyramidal platform atop of which they had stacked a mixture of wooden splinters, small shards, and chunks the size of pebbles, all kept above the moist earth and leaves to make for a simpler ignition. A small handful of rough, fibrous twine sat at the heart of the construction, ready to catch light and give birth to the desired blaze. Then, with this frame somewhat haphazardly constructed, Harlaw had given the students a flint and steel, and the newly formed team had encountered their first hurdle.

Darren, ever confident, had stepped forward first to make use of the flint and steel. One brief frenzy of huffing, puffing, and wild sparks, and all he had achieved was to mildly singe a few flinders and force his friends to leap back from the erratic showers of sparks, but no flames. Colin, the squire, had swiftly stepped up to offer his aid, to similar effect, and now it was the former mage's apprentice who found himself hunched over the ramshackle arrangement, hands trembling as he held the steel and tried to strike the flint at the correct angle. He muttered a few dark curses as, for what felt like the hundredth time, he struck the flint correctly, summoning a flurry of white-hot sparks, but the fiery spray shot past the firewood to hiss ineffectually on the soggy ground.

"The wilds tremble in fear of the grim-faced Witchers come to tame them!"

All four students turned at Harlaw's words to find the Witcher Master watching them, arms folded as his lips twisted in a grim smirk. Frederick, still hunched over the fire, was the first to speak up.

"The damn kindling won't catch!"

"Really?" Harlaw's eyebrow rose quizzically. "Or do you think perhaps your technique is lacking? I see a great many sparks flying, but no flames. Remember- all it takes is one single spark in the right place to reduce the oldest forest to ash. Take your time, focus on the motion of your strike, and control the sparks as they are formed."

"Why couldn't we just use the Witcher's flame sign to do this?" Darren asked.

"You wish to use Igni?" Again, Harlaw smirked. "I don't see any medallion that would allow you to do this."

The Witcher lifted a hand to point to his chest, where a glimmering silver wolf's head rested against his breast, catching the morning's light.

"Without his medallion, a Witcher is limited in his access to the magical arts. Even with such a trinket, he has his limits. You could be tired from a full day's tracking, or injured after tackling a particularly vicious beast. If your energy reserves are sapped in any way, you will not be able to cast a Sign to help you. Better that you know how to perform these mundane tasks rather than be left helpless without your usual parlour tricks."

The adept nodded in acceptance, brow creased as he mulled over the Master's reply. Harlaw stepped over, nodding to Merinea.

"You. Your turn. Try it, and let's see how you fare."

The young woman jolted at being singled out, stepping forward to take the flint and steel from Frederick. Kneeling down, she raised her trembling fingers over the firewood, and struck the two tools together.

A fan of sparks jumped across the ground, forcing the other students to shuffle back. Merinea's brow furrowed, and she shifted her grip on the flint, changing the angle. Then, with another swift motion, she struck again, this time launching a few white-hot sparks into the heart of the fire. Her fellow Nightsabers exclaimed in surprise as the tiny ghost of a flame caught in the twine, a minute wisp of smoke twisting through the air. Frederick and Darren moved forward swiftly, holding tiny splinters of wood over the flame until they began to blacken and smoulder, then moving the fledgling tongues of fire to other spots within the arrangement. Soon, the infant flames spread through the kindling, and a vibrant, albeit small, fire had taken a firm hold over the student's construction. Darren crowed in triumph while the others grinned broadly at their small success. A small smile on his face, Harlaw nodded approvingly before turning to walk away, vanishing amongst the trees.

~o~0~o~

The sun had risen considerably in the sky, nearing its zenith as the midday hour approached. The adepts, having received no further instruction, now lay around their roaring fire, occasionally feeding it a few more pieces of firewood. Throughout the nearby forest, other groups of students could be seen, all having achieved varying amounts of success with their endeavours. The brothers from Velen, Otto and Fordalt, had achieved quite the blaze, the flames at times leaping above their heads. They had, like Frederick's group, settled down next to their various fires, similarly perplexed by Master Harlaw's absence.

"You don't think something happened to him out in the forest?" Frederick asked, a little nervously.

"I doubt it." Darren, picking idly at a tree branch, flung a few twigs into the fire, watching them spark in the flames. "We are Witchers, we're the deadliest things around. Nothing catches a Witcher off-guard."

"If only that were the case." Colin, stretched out languorously across a fairly dry patch of grass, idly turned a leaf over in his hands. "My time as a squire has taught me that, no matter the skill or supposed nobility of the man, complacency and arrogance can overcome anyone."

"Not Witchers." Darren insisted. "Witchers are above any man. Destiny touches their lives, keeps them for grander things than knights or noble lords."

"If only that were true."

The students turned as Harlaw appeared, almost wraith-like, from the forest, a heavy burlap sack slung over his shoulder. Occasionally, the sack would twitch, but a swift nudge to the sack from the Witcher soon put a stop to it. He stepped over to the fire, looking down at his students.

"Your fire burns brightly, Adepts. Well done. You should be able to survive the harsh winters of these lands with this knowledge." With a single fluid motion, he swung the sack off his shoulder and onto the ground. "But starting a fire is just one of the skills you must learn to survive in the wilds. You will also need to be able to secure your own food from your surroundings."

He reached into the squirming sack, pulling out what could only be described as a ball of black fluff. Two long ears twitched as the minute form unfurled to reveal a pair of shining black eyes, a twitching snout and long whiskers. Two powerful hind legs kicked out wildly, but no amount of struggling could free the rabbit from Harlaw's unrelenting grip. He passed the tiny creature to Colin, an expression of panic glittering across the adept's face as the beast squirmed in his hands. This done, the Master produced an axe and a loop of rope from his belt.

"Here. Use these." The Witcher shrugged as he spoke. "If you were alone, you'd want to snap the animal's neck, but that requires practice and technique. For now, we want to keep the animal from suffering. One of you use a noose to secure the head while another deals the killing stroke."

The Witcher passed the rope to Frederick, the young adept tying an awkward knot with unsteady hands. Then, with a fair amount of effort from Colin and the former mage's apprentice and a lot of squirming from the rabbit, the animal was eventually bound. The duo found a stable-looking log and, still wrestling with the tiny creature, they eventually laid it across the rough bark, Frederick securing its feet with one hand while with the other pulling the makeshift noose taut until the beast was stretched out to its full length, held firmly in place. The rabbit kicked a few times, but fell still after a few moments.

Frederick, making sure to keep his hands clear, looked up to Colin and gave his fellow adept a single nod before looking back at the creature in his hands. For a single, long moment, his gaze came to rest on the rabbit's eyes, locking stares with the small beast. In that single, fleeting moment, he could see an array of emotions flicker across the deep, black eyes. Fear, confusion, a complete lack of understanding of what was happening. Its snout twitched as it stared back at Frederick, and the adept had to quash the sudden surge of reluctance that rose in his throat. He watched as Colin lifted the axe, positioning himself on the opposite side of the log. Frederick tensed as the axe rose high into the air. The rabbit, seeming to sense it's impending fate, became still as a rock, almost as though it accepted what was about to happen. The adept's grip on his newfound victim tightened as he averted his eyes.

The axe fell.


	13. Chapter 13- A Witcher's Feast

The knife moved swiftly in Frederick's hands, making quick incisions in the rabbit's fur and skin as his fingers tugged at the loosened hide. He'd strung the creature up by its hind legs as he worked, the bloody stump of its neck still dripping hot red droplets onto the forest floor. All around the clearing, the other groups of students gathered around their slain rabbits, following Harlaw's instruction on preparing the fresh carcass. The Witcher Master moved between the groups, offering advice or simply observing their work.

With a quick slice of his knife, the former mage's apprentice cut the hide free of the slain creature's hind legs, pulling at it to reveal the pale red flesh beneath. His fellow team-mates watched, some with mild interest, others with revulsion.

"This isn't the first time you've skinned an animal, Frederick?" Merinea asked, curious.

"Yes, I thought you were just a scholar?" Darren added.

"I wasn't always apprenticed to Master Travis." Frederick explained. "I spent much of my childhood raising livestock with my parents, before-" his breath hitched in his throat at the memory. "Before the war."

All were silent, clearly coming to their own conclusions about the dark cloud that crossed the face of the former mage's apprentice. Eventually, Frederick was the one to break the silence.

"We raised sheep. Sometimes, if we lost a lamb to the cold or illness, we would take the skin and, if another lamb was lost it's mother, we would make the orphan lamb wear the skin so it bore the scent of the dead lamb and the grieving ewe would adopt it. This rabbit is about the same size." He looked up to see the others regarding him with a measure of disgust. "I didn't say it was a pleasant task, but far better than having two dead beasts on our hands."

"A practical approach." Harlaw's words made Frederick jump, the blade in his hands almost nicking his fingers. He glanced back to see the Witcher approaching from the centre of the clearing, stepping around the students' roaring campfire. "You will find that a Witcher's life is full of such situations, and you must learn to approach them with the same rationality. The choice that saves lives will not always be pleasant, or-"

The Witcher froze mid-step, his brows furrowing. His head tilted to one side as he listened for just a moment, then he turned, gazing off into the depths of the forest. The students followed his gaze, but couldn't see anything. Darren, confused, opened his mouth to speak, but a stern wave of Harlaw's hand silenced him. Finally, after an interminable silence, the creature that had caught Harlaw's attention revealed itself.

The first indication that the adepts were not alone drifted across the still air of the afternoon, a soft, lilting song merrily dancing amid the leaves. The words were difficult to make out, but the tune was jolly, innocent, childish. As the students listened, they found their hearts inexplicably lifted, an odd, confusing joy gripping them. As they stared off into the forest, a shape revealed itself, dancing between the trees. Clad in a tattered white smock, she was a diminutive figure, no taller than a child. As she drew closer, the students could see that her skin was a pale shade of blue, her tangled, blonde hair adorned with a crown of woven leaves. As her singing grew louder, it drew the attention of the other adepts, drawing them over as she skipped across the clearing in her bare feet, spotting the group of youngsters and letting out a joyful shout as she waved a hand, turning to cavort in their direction.

"Hello Witchers!" Her joyous shout was shrill, bouncing between the trees.

As she approached, the students could see that her eyes, unlike a Human's, were incredibly wide, lacking any kind of white portion. Instead, they were a deep gold colour, with mesmerisingly black pupils at their centre. Deep laughter lines creased the corners of her eyes, betraying a mischievous, child-like nature, but behind her gaze their lurked a sense of ages past, of time immeasurable, of mysticism. Here stood no ordinary creature.

"I was speaking to your friends at the castle, and they told me I should come out here and see you! Look! I brought some food for you! Pigeon's eggs!"

She reached into a pocket on her smock, drawing out a handful of slime. She thrust her hand towards the students, waving it in the faces of several of them. As her clenched fist waved past Frederick's face, he saw fragments of eggshell and a few twigs mixed in with the clear slime. The new arrival, catching everyone's stares, looked down at her hand, a small frown ghosting across her face.

"Oh... I think I squashed them..." then, like an oil-doused rag catching fire, her expression brightened instantly. "Still good, though! See?"

The tiny creature reached into the goop with two dirty fingernails, pulling a shard of shell out. Before anyone present could say anything, she popped it into her mouth, crunching down with a satisfied grin. Raw egg dripping down her chin, the creature turned to Harlaw, offering the mush to the Master. A wry grin on his lips, the Witcher waved a hand.

"Thank you, but no. You save it for later."

"Okay!" The newcomer stuffed the goo back in her pocket, wiping her hand on a nearby student. She turned, her brow furrowing as she glanced past Frederick's shoulder. Shouldering her way past the students, she glanced at the carcass with a quizzical expression.

"What happened to him?" She poked her finger into the still-warm body. The rabbit swayed, bouncing against the tree trunk. None of the students could meet the newcomer's gaze as she looked between them.

"It died." Harlaw said.

"Aww... poor little boy!" She tugged at the loosened hide, lifting a scrap of fur before laughing loudly. "Poor BIG boy! Haha!" She stuck her fingers under the skin, tugging some more of it loose. She stroked the fur gently. "Eww! It's all sticky and warm! And fuzzy!"

"We're preparing it for dinner for my friends here." The Witcher waved a hand at his students.

"Your friends?" She looked about curiously. Her eyes suddenly glowed with excitement. "Can they be my friends, too? Please?"

"I'm sure you can." The Master grinned. "Why don't you see if they'll play with you?"

The creature glanced at the students, then back to the Witcher, a toothy grin spreading across her face. She lunged at the nearest adept, the Skelliger named Hilda, bouncing against her exuberantly. The student chuckled as she stumbled backwards, caught off guard. The cackling little thing then skipped over to another student, similarly throwing herself against him, laughing as the foundling Witcher similarly staggered backwards. One by one, she danced between the students, each of them receiving a similar bump to the chest, until she reached the towering Darren. She struck the adept in the chest, but he remained motionless, like a rock. Puzzled, she threw herself against him again, to similar effect. The newcomer placed her hands on his chest and shoved with all her might, but could not make him budge an inch. The tall adept grinned. The blue creature stepped back, a ponderous furrow on her brow. Then, with a shrug, she threw herself against him again, but this time clamped her arms around him in a tight hug. Then, with a light-hearted laugh, she cartwheeled away, skipping between two trees as she threw a few parting words over her shoulder at the bewildered, smiling adepts.

"Bye, Witcher friends!"

The puzzled students turned to face Harlaw, the older Witcher shaking his head as he chortled to himself.

"Master, what manner of creature was that?" Frederick asked.

"A Godling, student. One of the creatures native to these forests. A... a forest guardian, I guess you could say. There are few of them left, nowadays. They are not normally dangerous, but you must be careful not to spend too much time around them. They have a love of mischief and trickery that can soon get out of hand."

The Witcher turned, gesturing to the rabbit dangling from the tree.

"Back to the task at hand, while your kill is still fresh. There is not much time left in the day."

With a nod, Frederick turned back to the grisly chore, twinges of curiosity tugging at his mind. What other creatures could be hiding in the forest, waiting to reveal themselves?

~o~0~o~

The sun had set some time ago, the dim light of evening closing in around the campfires, almost as if the shadows were being drawn in by the alluring scent of cooking meat. After the rabbit carcasses had been prepared, skewered on long sticks and hoisted over the open flames, Master Harlaw had produced several pouches and small jars from his pack. Butter, salt, garlic, a few other herbs, all in small containers fit for a long journey in the wilds, soon enough the Witcher and his students had their cooking meat smelling good enough to die for, many a mouth watering among the group. Finally the meat was declared fit to eat, and each student had carved off a portion for themselves, moving to sit as a group around a much larger campfire that Harlaw had created. Some knelt before the fire, gazing into the flames thoughtfully, while others sat on folded legs, wooden bowl of food balanced on their lap as they dove into their supper, pride at their creation obvious in their faces. Still others lay stretched out languorously on the fallen leaves, fully relaxed after a day's work. After a short time, Harlaw had produced a bottle of wine and a few wooden cups from his pack, passing it around the group to slake their thirst.

Frederick, meanwhile, sat comfortably to one side, watching the group conversing as he ate. A nearby tree provided something to lean his back against as the warm food and cool wine dulled his senses and warmed his blood, teasing him with the promise of slumber. For the first time since arriving at Kaer Marter, a sense of calm overcame him, true relaxation. Life, for once, was simple, and it was good.

In his silent thoughts, the former mage's apprentice failed to hear the approaching footsteps until their owner stood next to him, a booted foot coming to rest on a particularly dry leaf with a loud crunch that roused him from his reverie. He jolted, glancing up to find the soft features of the Skelliger, Hilda, looking down at him.

"My lady!" He stuttered, scrambling to put his bowl aside and rise to his feet, but a gesture from the red-haired islander stopped him.

"Frederick, I've told you before not to call me that. I am nobody's lady. Most definitely not here." She sank down to sit next to the young adept, leaning against the tree next to him. Reaching for her belt, she produced a small, wax-sealed pouch, pulling the stopper on it. "The druids brew this on Spikeroog, out in the hills where no one can disturb them. It's said that they leave the barrels out through the winter, to capture the harsh winter in the heart of the brew, and that they use their magics to trap spirits of the sea within each keg. All I know is that a single mug could put any Skelliger on his arse, and if any man could drink a whole keg and live he would be crowned High King of Skellige for the rest of his days."

She offered the pouch to Frederick, pulling the stopper to release a sweet, heady scent from within. The honey mead within smelled potent enough to etch silver with, but Frederick was unafraid as he lifted his cup for Hilda to pour a measure. The Skelliger then poured herself a drink, too, and the duo raised their cups in a toast, the wooden vessels clunking together quietly. The young adepts took a deep pull of their drinks, Frederick wincing as the liquid fire scorched his throat, while Hilda seemed unaffected by it. The pair watched the fire for a short time in silence, each consumed by their own thoughts.

"Has Meinard approached you again about his experiments?" Hilda asked, not taking her eyes off the flames.

"No." Frederick shook his head. "In truth, I have been avoiding him. I have no desire to become some kind of test subject, like those monsters he keeps caged up."

"But the power you could gain from those mutagens..."

"Believe me, if anyone were to benefit from those experiments, it would be Meinard, not me. I spent enough time under Travis to know when someone is just out to use you for their own ends."

"Travis, he was your master, right?" Hilda asked. "The mage?"

"Yes, he was. I served him for many years." Frederick's tone had become clipped, curt. Regardless, Hilda pursued the topic.

"What was it like? Casting magic, studying spells, performing rituals?"

Frederick sat in silence, chewing his lip for a long moment. An expression of distaste crossed his features, his nose wrinkling as if he'd caught scent of a foul odour. Just as the moment drew on too long, and it seemed as if he would not speak of the matter, the former apprentice let loose a long sigh.

"In truth? I barely learned anything of magic from Travis." He glowered darkly as he spoke. "I was little more than a slave to him. He scooped me up off the streets after- once my parents were gone, and honestly I don't know whether I should thank him or curse him for that. I thought I was being given a new, grander life, an apprenticeship to a mage! But I reckon he just saw a way to gain a servant for free."

"It can't have been so terrible." Hilda reasoned. "Otherwise, you wouldn't have stayed as long as you did."

"I had the respect of the townsfolk, at least." Frederick shrugged. "Whenever Master Travis wasn't around, I was the nearest thing to his voice in the public ear. But once I returned to the workshop, it was back to dusting shelves and washing pots. Never anything more. Never anything grander." He scoffed. "I had the mind for such studies, but Master Travis never gave me the chance to use it! I may have been born a peasant, but- between running his errands and fulfilling his every whim- I learned to read and write, to speak like the scholars and lords do, to navigate the terrain of the nobility, almost entirely without his input! Knowing that all that knowledge sat at my fingertips, held just out of reach by a near-sighted old fool like him... it was beyond infuriating! I felt like I would explode with frustration."

"It must have been hard." Hilda tried to sympathise. "But then there was some kind of... accident? You told us something of it before, but wouldn't go into details concerning it."

"It's... not an easy memory to relive." The adept walked around the words carefully. "On my twenty-fifth birthday, I decided enough was enough. I'd earned at least a chance to study Master Travis' craft. So, while he was occupied with matters in his workshop, I snuck into his library. I thought if I could just take a look at his books, maybe read a few pages, I could see what the life of a mage could be like, at least for a moment. I'd worked hard, I figured I'd earned it." He paused to take another swig of mead, the fire this time somewhat dulled, or perhaps his throat was just numb from the hard liquor. Swallowing, he continued. "No sooner was I in the library than I saw this old tome, big, leather bound, brass clasps holding it closed. Master Travis didn't keep it with the other books. This one was on display, on a lectern in the centre of the study. I should have known better than to touch it, should have gone for a smaller book on the shelves that Travis wouldn't notice had been meddled with. But I just couldn't help myself! Before I knew what was happening I was standing over the tome, opening the clasps and turning the pages. I still don't understand fully what happened then, but something within those pages was acting through me. The words within, they were like nothing I had ever seen, nothing I could hope to understand, but somehow I found myself reading them aloud, the words pouring in through my eyes and out from behind my lips. I couldn't stop myself! Before I knew it, a spell had been cast."

"What did it feel like?" Hilda sat up from leaning against the tree, bringing her legs up to her chest as she rested her chin on her knees, arms clamped tightly around her shins. Her eyes gleamed with curiosity, reflecting the firelight. "What did the spell do?"

"I'm still not certain of the spell's purpose." Frederick answered. "As for what it felt like... have you ever seen a wave wash up on the shore, and find its way between two rocks, into a narrow channel? Where the water is pushed further and faster as it has less and less room to move through, and it swiftly turns into a white, foaming fury? That was what the power flowing through me felt like. All at once too much and not enough and completely overwhelming. My skin was on fire, my hair on end, my blood boiling as my muscles wanted to burst but could not. I thought my bones would leap from my flesh and my heart would rip itself apart as it tried to flee in two different directions. I felt as though there would be nought left of myself but a pile of ash and a distant, screaming ghost of a thought. In the end, there was nothing but the spell. There could be nothing but the spell. There was just no room left in the world for Frederick or his grand idea of becoming a master mage."

"What happened then?" Hilda was breathless.

"After that, I remember nothing but whiteness." Frederick chose to omit what he had seen, those glimpses of terrible things that the magic had allowed him to witness. The death, the fire, the devastation. It troubled him greatly, but he felt no urge to share such troubles with the young woman beside him. "There was a loud sound, like the world coming to an end, then nothing. I'm told I was unconscious for almost three weeks, barely breathing, at times writhing and screaming in my sleep, burning with fever, other times, lying still as a corpse, cold as ice. Some of the local alchemists and herbalists claim I crossed over the barrier between life and death several times, and none can say what brought me back each time. One even said that the magic seeping into my flesh left me immortal, though I have no desire to find out if he spoke true."

"What did your master say? Surely his experience with magic would have-"

"Travis was in no condition to help." Frederick interrupted. "The explosion left him crippled, half-blind, a shell of the mage he had once been. His library was gone, incinerated, the grand tome from which the spell had originated now nowhere to be found. His workshop, and all the reagents and artefacts within, were left in flames. Even his observatory, with its grand map of the skies and his megascope for communing with other magi and sorceresses was utterly shattered. He was powerless to cure me. I doubt he even wanted to, after the harm I caused him."

"And yet, somehow, you found a cure?"

"A Witcher cured me." Frederick explained. "He happened to be travelling through Asheberg at the time, for what purpose I do not know. Hearing of my predicament, he offered his expertise, using Witcher alchemy and healing knowledge to bring me back. The only price he asked of Travis was that I be sent to Kaer Marter as soon as I was fit to travel to face training as a Witcher, a price my former master gladly paid to be rid of me. I have spent the past year travelling and now, here I stand, ready for my newfound life as a Witcher."

"I see... do you know who the Witcher was?" Hilda asked.

"I do not. Whoever it is, he is either not here, or he has not come forward to speak with me. Perhaps he does not recognise me. Regardless, I owe him a debt of blood that I must repay one day. Without his work, I would not be alive so, be it by my living or my dying, I will repay his kindness. This I have sworn before, and I will gladly do so again."

"Well, I hope that you find him, Frederick." Hilda smiled, standing up. "In Skellige, we take such debts very seriously, and having one lurk over your head without a clear way to settle it can be a grim burden." She glanced back to the fire, where the rest of the Nightsabers still chatted. "I should return to the others. Be well, Frederick."

"And you, my lady." The former apprentice bowed his head. The Skelliger sighed loudly at his words, pouting her lips.

"I told you not to call me 'your la-'"

The young woman's words were interrupted as another figure strode out of the darkening woods, walking straight up to the fire and drawing the attention of all present. Master Njall cut a fearsome figure in the darkening eve, the fire casting sinister shadows across his grim face. He glanced to all present, sparing Master Harlaw a silent nod. He gestured for all the students to rise, folding his arms as he surveyed them.

"Nightsabers, we are needed back at the castle. Grandmaster Treyyse has a special task for us. Prepare your minds and strengthen your spirits. The time has come for your first trial."

The adepts jolted in surprise at their Master's words, glancing to one another in uncertainty. Without another word, the towering Skelliger turned on his heel and marched off into the forest, leaving the students no choice but to hurry after him, leaving behind the roaring campfire, a half-eaten rabbit carcass, and Master Harlaw, throwing a few more sticks onto the fire. The Witcher grinned as he watched the departing adepts, a knowing smile as he imagined what challenge awaited them that night.

As Harlaw sat there, alone, he tilted his head to listen to the noises of the forest. Birds, settling down for the night, fluttered back to their roosts. Bats slithered through the air, just awakening. Insects buzzed in the undergrowth. The wind stirred the leaves where they clung to the trees. And there, behind all the susurrus of the living forest, a long, low, menacing growl. The Witcher nodded his head in understanding, his smile turning grim. He muttered to himself as he poured another cup of wine, tearing a leg off the last rabbit for his plate.

"Luck be with you, students." He said to no one in particular. "You're going to need it."


	14. Chapter 14- A Trial

Torches burned brightly in the courtyard of the castle by the time the students returned from the forest, casting dark shadows against the ancient, time-worn stone. The lit torches stood in a ring, at the centre of which waited the impassive Grandmaster Treysse, the shadows flickering across his face, tracing the features almost as timeless and unyielding as the Elven stonework of his castle. As the Nightsabers approached, his gleaming eyes flickered in their direction, but he gave them no acknowledgement, instead waiting for Njall to approach him before turning his back on the students to speak with the Skelliger privately. The pair conversed for some time, while the students waited awkwardly. Njall spared a look over his shoulder, a wry smirk twisting his features.

"Nightsabers! Show the Grandmaster how strong you can be!"

Frederick stifled a groan as he knelt on the rough gravel, ignoring the stones that bit into his palms as he set about the expected push-ups. Beside him, the other adepts did the same, some like Ragodar and the brothers from Velen showing more enthusiasm than others. Soon the night air was still save for the panting and grunting of the students, the muted murmurs of the Grandmaster and the Skelliger, and he crackling flames of the torches.

An eternity later, when Frederick's hands were raw and his knees shivering from the strain, Njall permitted his students to stand, his gruff expression tinged with a twinkle of amusement and possibly even pride as his adepts obediently barked out their thanks for the lesson in strength. Beside him, Treysse was unreadable as ever, his features hewn from the bedrock of the land far beneath their feet, emotionless, cold.

"We have received reports of many beasts roaming these woods, in numbers unlike any seen before." The Grandmaster's voice was even, stern, but calm. "Your fellow adepts have already sallied forth to combat many of the threats, but our efforts tonight will require every able body on hand to stem the tide. I require you to deal with several creatures spotted to the east, before they can begin to encroach upon our lands here at Kaer Marter. This will be the first of your trials, a test of your resolve. Survive the hunt, and you may yet prove worthy of learning our ways."

The Grandmaster turned on his heel, marching towards the castle as Njall regarded his students, looking at the concerned faces as he weighed them up.

"I will fetch the weapons needed for this hunt. We must not linger, for the other students have quite the head start on us. Wait here, I will return momentarily."

With those few words, the master was gone, vanishing beyond the light of the torches in the direction of the armoury. The students, uncertain of themselves, stood awkwardly in the ring of torches, waiting. Frederick glanced about nervously as a few strange sounds, odd, ghostly howls and deep, guttural groans, rose from the woodlands surrounding the castle. He imagined he heard a few raised voices, but could not be certain. After a few long minutes, Hilda turned on her heel, striding away from the group, Darren silently falling into stride behind her.

"I need to go grab a few things." She murmured over her shoulder. "Do not leave without me!"

With that, before the others could even voice a question, the pair were gone.

~o~0~o~

Some time had passed, and the students remained in the courtyard, nervously waiting for their Master and their fellow adepts to return. Finally, the crunching of gravel underfoot warned them mere moments before Hilda and Darren returned from the shadows, hurriedly rejoining their friends. Looking about furtively, the duo produced four glimmering phials from their pockets, showing them to their friends.

"These were all we were able to acquire." Hilda whispered, still gazing about for any watching eyes. "We will have to decide who should carry them, as we do not have enough for everyone."

"What are they?" Frederick said as he was handed one. He lifted the tiny glass container for a closer look, examining the fluid inside, tinged a reddish-orange. Red flakes of some unknowable substance floated in the liquid, twisting almost of their own volition. The glass itself seemed warm to the touch, unnaturally so.

"Swallow potion." Darren explained. "I took some from the alchemy lab. I remember the Masters saying there were two kinds, a stronger one for Witchers and a weaker mixture for us adepts, but I am pretty sure these are the weaker concoction."

"Pretty sure?" Cyrus asked warily.

"Well, I cannot be certain." Darren answered. "And I am not about to ask Kilian or Vester about the potions I just stole from them."

"What happens if you've taken the wrong ones?" Otto asked, arms folded.

"Best case, they don't work." Hilda explained. "Worst case, you... uh, die."

The students shifted their feet uneasily. Eventually it was Darren to speak up.

"Better to risk death with a potion than just accept it when a werewolf tries to tear your throat out." He secreted a potion about his person, hiding it in the folds of his shirt. "I will keep one. Who else is willing to take one?"

"I will keep one." Hilda tucked it away in a pouch on her belt. "Merinea, I think you should have one, too, and Frederick as well. We can hold back from the front lines of any combat, let others handle the majority of the fighting, and be better able to help any who are injured."

Frederick accepted the potion without a word, understanding the Skelliger's thinking. He was by no means one of the group's more accomplished fighters, and would be of far more use supporting his brothers and sisters. The phial slipped into a pocket, the strange warmth of the liquid inside soon seeping through to touch his skin.

Just as the adepts finished stowing their stolen elixirs out of sight, the sounds of more approaching footsteps reached their ears. They turned as three more figures emerged from the darkness. Frederick quickly identified the cocksure Master Algir, one of the Cat Masters. The Witcher, ever-confident grin gracing his bearded features, walked with a bold poise that was easy to identify, even in the murk of the growing night. In his ear, a jewelled earring reflected the occasional flicker of torchlight.

Next to the Cat Master, the familiar sight of Bertram, the Wolf School steward, joked and laughed with Algir. One could be forgiven, what with the steward's stocky frame, broad shoulders and flowing, grey beard, for assuming that Bertram had at least a few quarts of Dwarvish blood flowing through his veins. That and his fondness for honeyed mead and general merriment. The steward was often to be found relaxing with the students, sharing little snippets of wisdom from his extensive library. Any time Bertram showed up, those around him couldn't help but smile.

The third and final member of the trio was a face Frederick had not seen before, although given the mass of students and Masters roaming the castle that was not too much of a surprise. She was slightly built, dark of hair and keen of eye, her sharp gaze flickering over the students in a moment. The cat-like pupils dilated as she strode into the torchlight, an unnerving effect that all true Witchers could call upon at will. She wore simple but sturdy leather armour, a long studded coat that offered some protection while not hindering movement in any way. Her boots, heavy and serviceable, were caked in mud, leaves and other detritus from the forest, telling of a long day's tracking in the wilds. On her back, an ornate bow carved from dark wood, a quiver full of arrows at her hip, fletched in bloody red and midnight black. As the trio approached, she slipped away from the other two, taking up a position on the very periphery of the light, where she could gaze into the night unimpeded. With a single, neat motion, her legs folded beneath her and she sank down onto the gravel path, taking her bow in her hands and placing it on her crossed legs. She began working the bowstring with her fingers, adjusting it in ways Frederick couldn't begin to understand.

"Students!" Bertram was the first of the trio to address the adepts, raising his arms in a warm greeting. "Should you not be out with the others, throwing yourselves at monsters like a bunch of stupid bastards?"

"We're awaiting Master Njall's return." Merinea explained. "He's gone to fetch us the weapons we will need."

"Ah, your first hunt!" The steward grinned broadly. "A momentous day! You will not soon forget it. Meanwhile, I will stay back here, make sure that damn Godling hasn't found her way into the beer cellars..."

"You won't be joining us on the hunt, Bertram?" Otto asked with a mischievous grin. The portly steward replied with a laugh that started somewhere in his boots.

"No, young one, not I. I have more sense than to be running around in the cold and the mud at night." He placed his hands on his hips, shaking his head mirthfully as he sighed. "Ah! No, students, Bertram has not gone on a hunt for many moons, not since I was an adept, like you, training to become a Witcher."

He glanced about at the looks of surprise on the gathered students' faces, smiling. Clearly the surprise was something he was used to.

"Yes, indeed! I was once in your shoes, training to be a killer, a monster hunter, a Witcher." He raised a hand, beckoning the students to follow him.

Bertram climbed the steps leading towards the main door of the castle, stopping beside one of the marble lions that flanked either side of the doorway. With a smooth, acrobatic motion, he flung one leg over the stone beast, mounting it like one would ride a horse. Some of the Nightsabers had to stifle giggles as they looked on, the steward cutting quite the comical figure atop his stony feline mount. Bertram grinned, clearly aware of how he looked, and waved a hand in an expansive gesture.

"Gather round, students, and I will tell you the tale of Bertram the Witcher!"


	15. Chapter 15- Bertram, Part 1- Nameless

Heat rose from the dusty, worn road in shimmering waves, twisting through the air like smoke. Overhead, the sun beat down mercilessly, tormenting any soul unfortunate enough to find themselves out in it. By the roadside, what had once been a barn, now little more than a single wall and a few rotten timbers, cast the smallest of shadows across the remote highway, the shade rapidly receding as the sun above reached its zenith. In that tiny refuge from the day's intensity, a sole, solitary figure slumped. Arms balanced on his knees so that his outstretched hands cupped together, a begging bowl for one too destitute even for a simple bowl or cap.

The youngster had no more than a few years on him, pushing into his teens perhaps, but under weary brows lurked maturity and world-weariness unfairly achieved, an awareness of the truths of the world that one so young had no business possessing. That, combined with the blood that still stained his clothes and the open wounds patched up with mouldering rags, all told a tale of violence and tragedy, one all too common in this age of conflict.

As the sun circled around to beat down on the youth's head, his already parched throat troubling him even more so as he could find no more sanctuary from the day's rage, the young lad found himself slipping into an addled daze, not even responding when a wasp alighted upon his cheek, probing at the beads of sweat that rolled across his skin before flying away. For all the boy cared, a pack of wolves could spring from the nearby grassland and devour him whole, and the lad would have neither willpower nor desire to stop them. What would it matter? They were all gone now. Everyone he'd ever known. Everyone who'd ever cared about him. Even the village was gone, the charred embers of the last few huts ground into the dirt by the hooves of Their horses.

Memories of the attack welled up, of the smell of his mother's blood as he frantically tried to stanch the bleeding with his own shirt, her eyes already lifeless. Of the fury of the flames, the blackened skeleton of his home visible in the midst of the inferno, before it crumbled into nothing. The laughter of the raiders as they gathered up the survivors for their own sickening entertainment, leaving behind a single shattered soul in the ashes of his former life. As the memories returned, the flicker of fear, of rage, of hatred, tried to find a place in his heart, but any kindling to be found there was long gone, used up in the first few days afterwards, and now only smothering smoke and choking ash remained. Exhausted, the lad slipped into uneasy slumber.

~o~0~o~

He may have slept for five minutes, or maybe it was five years, he couldn't be sure. Regardless, he didn't hear the approaching horse, didn't notice it until its rider eclipsed the sun. The sudden coolness of the shade brought a momentary wakefulness to the lad, prompting him to look up. He squinted at the black silhouette of the rider. The horse, breathing heavily in the heat, shook its head from side to side, its harness jangling in the still air. The overall impression of the newcomer was quite imposing, but it was the first person to have passed in what felt to the lad like a lifetime, the first opportunity to have come his way in an eternity.

"Spare a copper, kind sir?" The lad couldn't see for the sun whether it was a man or a woman on the horse, but he took a gamble, hoping it would pay off. The rider certainly made no effort to correct him.

"Where are you from, child?" The voice was somewhat muffled by a heavy wooden hood and a thick black scarf across the newcomer's face. No hint of an accent, or even an intonation to determine gender.

"Boggevrieg. I am-" The lad winced at the name, the memory. "I was from Boggevrieg."

"I see. The pile of rubble back down the road?" The callous way that the stranger referred to what used to be the boy's entire world should have made him furious, but he could not endanger his first chance at some coin in days, so he just nodded. "Hmf. A shame. The tavern was in an ideal location for my travels."

Rage boiled inside the boy, white-hot and blinding. The ash and smoke in his heart suddenly exploded into brilliant flames, forcing him to leap to his feet, consequences be damned.

"That's all you can say?!" He was incredulous. "That was my home! My family! My life! I lost everything!"

"Perhaps." The stranger showed no reaction to the sudden hostility of the youngster. "But that has no effect upon me. Why should I be troubled by the lives of those I never met, a home I never slept in, a life I never lived? Those are your tragedies, not mine."

It was at this point, with the sun no longer blinding him, that the boy could begin to take in a few details, realising just how gravely he had erred. Two swords were fastened to the saddle, both ornate, but practical, and very obviously well-used. The armour the mysterious figure wore was solid, serviceable, and had been repaired many, many times. A silver pendant rested against the stranger's breast, depicting a snarling wolf's head. Most striking of all, however, were the eyes that gazed out over the scarf that hid most of their face. The eyes gleamed, even in the shadow of the hood, a feral yellow glow, slitted pupils almost totally closed in the brightness of the day. A Witcher. A hunter of beasts. A monster. The lad's stomach dropped as he realised who he had challenged, but he did not back down, even when those dread, yellow orbs locked with his and he felt his entire soul being laid bare, every secret and darkness opened up.

"Have you anyone else who depends on you, child?" The stranger asked. "A sister? A brother? Friends?"

"No." The boy answered quietly. "They're all gone now."

"Good." The rider took their reins up again. "There is a town three day's ride to the east of here. On the third day, a wagon will be leaving for Kaer Tiele. Be on that wagon before noon, or it will leave without you. Speak with Master Tibus. He will be driving the wagon."

"B-but I have no horse!" The boy protested. "How am I supposed to travel that far in just three days?"

"That's your problem to figure out." The nameless stranger nudged their horse's flank, setting off down the path. "Be wary on the Path, child. We will not meet again."

With that, the horse broke into a gallop, and the boy found himself alone again. He stood, speechless, in the middle of the road, mouth still working its way around several protests. He looked after the departed Witcher, then back in the other way, towards his old home, and finally to the east, out across the fields and open countryside, untamed, wild. He swallowed, clenching his fists, then broke into a run, vanishing into the long grasses in moments.

~o~0~o~

Rain poured down on the town square, ushering the few merchants who had tried to set up shop in the marketplace under their stalls. In the centre of the town's square, a wagon waited patiently, its owner ignoring the raindrops that spattered down on his bald head. Instead, Master Tibus focused on tying down the barrels and crates he had just spent the past day mercilessly haggling for, his imposing physique and glowing eyes making any argument for a more favourable price that much more convincing.

With nary a grunt, he lifted the final barrel into place with one hand, a task that would have required two lesser men, deftly tying a few knots to secure it in place. This done, he moved to the front of the wagon, making ready to clamber up and urge the two mules harnessed to it to set off.

Just as he placed a firm hand on the wagon's seat to leverage himself up, a noise caught his attention. His ears, scarred and in one case possibly chewed, twitched. Sure enough, a loud slap-slap-slap sound could be heard over the spattering raindrops. He turned just in time to see a young lad come barrelling into the town square, feet squelching in the muddy street.

The boy was haggard, bruised and breathless. His clothes were covered in mud, the youth having clearly landed face-down in the mud several times. Underneath, the remnants of blood could be seen. The boy's face was red from exertion, bags under his eyes from lack of sleep. Judging by the mildly dazed look in his gaze, the Witcher guessed that the boy hadn't slept in about three days. As Tibus looked him up and down, the Witcher noted that his trousers were torn, as if he'd passed through thick brambles and got tangled up. One of his boots was missing, the other barely holding together. His exposed foot was a bloody mess, bruised and blistered. The lad walked with a pronounced limp. He looked about, wild-eyed and, upon catching sight of the Witcher, he staggered over, breathing like a bellows.

"I was-" He gasped, holding up a hand to try and hold the Witchers' attention. "I was- I was sent here to find you, Master Tibus! I am to travel with you to Kaer Tiele!"

"Is that so?" Tibus frowned. He knew exactly whose handiwork this was, and this wasn't the first time a youngster had been sent his way like this. "Another child with delusions of becoming a Witcher?"

The Witcher spat, a gobbet of phlegm landing at the boy's feet. Finally, with a dramatic sigh, Tibus threw up his hands.

"Very well!" He said, exasperated. "But there's no room for you up front. You'll have to sit on the back. If you fall off, you're walking. If you knock any of the supplies loose, you'll be carrying it all the way to the castle. If you bother me, I'll make you take the place of one of my mules. Is that clear?"

The boy nodded, a little overwhelmed by the gruff nature of the monster hunter, but he was too tired after three days and nights of almost non-stop marching to even protest. His brain swimmed with exhaustion and he was simply glad to have made it in time. Without a word, he climbed on the back of the wagon. Tibus, watching him carefully, turned to move back to the front of the wagon again, sparing only a moment to throw a disinterested question over his shoulder.

"What do we call you, boy?"

The lad, already nestled between two barrels of ale, had almost entirely descended into a deep slumber, the black fingers of unconsciousness clutching at him. Even so, he managed an answer, little more than a murmur.

"Bertram." He mumbled. "My name is Bertram."


	16. Chapter 16- Bertram, Part 2- Svar

The bed, little more than a couple of layers of cloth on hard flagstones, was still the most comfortable Bertram had had the fortune to experience. The straw-stuffed bundle that supported his head reeked of rat droppings and damp, and still it was luxury compared to the poverty of his village and the harsh reality of the countryside.

His feet still throbbed from the journey, most of it completed on foot after a snapping axle had sent half of Tibus' goods careening down into a deep crevasse, the now-useless wagon abandoned as the Witcher loaded up what remained on the backs of the mules and of his newfound apprentice. By the time the troupe arrived at Kaer Tiele, the beasts and the young lad were both on the verge of collapse, their Witcher leader barely winded by the journey. So tired had the young man been upon staggering through the castle's gates, he barely took stock of his surroundings before staggering into a cold stone building and, with scarcely any guidance, found an empty corner to curl up in, the makeshift sleeping mat and blanket granted to him in his half-awake stupor. Then, as a babble of voices talked over him, Bertram slept. Occasionally, he would wake to the muttering of his new caretakers, but could not make out any faces in the darkness.

"This is most irregular! He is too old, and the current clutch of students are already too far advanced for him to join them!" The shrill, cracked voice of a woman scraped roughly at his ears.

"Have you ever known Destiny to adhere to a timetable, Master Merrinar?" Another voice, strong, firm, unshaking, bulled its way through the darkness. Authority, resilience, determination, all were present in those tones.

"You are too reckless!" The first voice, Merrinar, objected. "Look at him! He is nought but a lowborn sop! If the lessons do not kill him, then the Trials surely will."

"Perhaps, perhaps not." Bertram imagined he heard the rustling of leather, as though one clad in it had shrugged. "But need I remind you of his patron?"

"No, you do not." The woman spat. "I would spit on their name, had it not been forgotten to our guild. The students sent by their hand are always trouble."

"The Nameless Witcher has never erred in their judgement." The strong voice contended. "All of their students have an important destiny, and it is not our place to turn them away." There was a long pause, then he spoke again. "The boy will be trained. That is my decision. If he cannot keep up with the others, so be it, but he will be trained. Understood?"

"Of course, Svar." The woman replied, almost sarcastically. "After all, within these walls you are, as you like to say, the law."

~o~0~o~

The morning came all too quickly, the young Bertram roused from his slumber by the harsh clatter of a wooden bowl landing on the stone floor next to him, its contents slopping over the sides messily.

"Time to rise, whelpling!" The coarse voice of Merrinar roused him. "Eat up, and be out in the courtyard in five minutes! We begin our day's training before the sun touches the cobbles of the main courtyard."

Bertram rolled over just in time to see the Witcher Master striding out of the room, her solid, wide frame filling the doorway. She looked back over extremely powerfully built shoulders to reveal a heavily scarred visage, her eyes glowing the brilliant yellow as was customary among Witchers. Her hair, a dirty grey flecked through with black, was cut short to her skull, little more than a couple of fingers' width in length. Before Bertram could take in any more of the Witcher, she was gone.

Minutes later, Bertram stumbled out into the courtyard, still hopping as he forced his foot into one of the tight leather boots he had been given. He staggered down the steps towards a cluster of other youngsters, all waiting patiently in strict rows. As he approached, the youngster finally had a chance to take in his surroundings in the light of day.

Kaer Tiele, the chosen lair of the Witcher School of the Wolf, had formerly been an Elven palace, dating to an age far earlier than any human had lived to see. Now, centuries after its builders had been forced to abandon it, the ancient building was showing its age. Moss clung to the walls, stone blocks cracked and splintered under the weight of ages, and more than a few tiles were missing from the orange rooftop. The courtyard itself, while clear of any obstruction, was also showing the wear and tear of time, cobbles cracked and a thin tide of grass and dirt creeping in at the edges. Even through the grime and dust, the splendour of the castle could be seen. Tall windows and grand carvings adorned the walls, while heavy oak created nigh-impenetrable doors.

Before Bertram could spend any more time marvelling at the castle, the doors behind him slammed open, the clanking of armoured boots signalling the approach of a new figure. The lad turned to see Master Tibus at the top of the steps, now clad in armour that was equal parts leather and chain mail. He bore a grim scowl, growing even deeper as he regarded the youth before him. As he marched past the youngster, he batted out with a gloved hand, striking Bertram's shoulder and sending him stumbling.

"Get in formation, runt!" He growled. "You've already got a long way to go to even match up to our youngest adepts, and I have no intention of letting you slow down my-"

"Tibus." The same, stern voice Bertram had heard the night before rang out as its owner strode out of the castle.

The Witcher who had spoken up was just as intimidating in appearance as his voice had suggested. Clad in heavy plate mail, a jagged red scar running beneath his eye, his hair cut close to the scalp, this Witcher Master had the kind of gaze that could pierce through any deception, uncover any secret. Behind those vibrant yellow eyes, a deep, horizonless wisdom lurked, but also a fierce ruthlessness, the kind of uncompromising determination that weaker men were wise to avoid getting in the way of.

His fellow Witcher bristled at the one-word reprimand, but relented, turning a lethal glare to the young Bertram. In that instant, Bertram knew that this momentary humiliation, no matter how slight, would not be forgotten. Swallowing the lump in his throat, the lad made his way to the waiting students, finding a spot at the end of one of their rows.

"Students!" The Witcher's shout bounced off the castle walls. "There is a newcomer in our midst. The hand of destiny dropped him at our feet, and now we are to make a Witcher out of him. From this day forth, he is your brother, and is to be treated as such. You will watch his back, care for him as family should. However, you will also make sure that he is not coddled. Do not shield him from the harsh realities of the life we lead, instead, give him every chance to grow stronger. These are my words, and they shall be obeyed, for within these walls, I am the law!"

"Yes, Master Svar!" The students barked obediently, and it was in that moment that Bertram came to know the name of the man who would have the most profound influence on his life, the man who he would come to regard one day as something of a father figure- Svar of Novigrad.

~o~0~o~

"And so, students, when we mix a decoction with additional rubedo properties, such as in this Swallow potion I have prepared, we can create a more potent healing elixir, with additional regenerative properties."

Merrinar lifted the tiny vial, filled with a vibrant red fluid. Bertram and the other students watched the vial with careful eyes, the young orphan's eyes most intent. The older Witcher caught his gaze and, narrowing her eyes, flicked her wrist to send the potion soaring at the lad.

"You! Freshblood!" She snapped as he fumbled to catch the vial. "Name to me five ingredients with the rubedo aspect to them."

"Balisse fruit, green mold, calcium equum, bruxae blood and Feainnewedd!" The student answered back instantaneously, causing the Witcher's brows to rise up.

"Very good, stripling." She murmured. "I have not even spoken of Feainnewedd in these classes. Few outside of the Aen Seidhe or the highest circles of the Druidic orders know of it. Where did you learn of such a weed?"

"I- I read of it in Archivist Trusa's library." The student admitted.

"I see." Merrinar' eyes narrowed again. "Once more sticking your nose where it does not belong. Very well. After class, you will stay behind and clean out all of the apparatus as punishment. Make sure they shine, or it will be cleaning privies for you!"

Bertram lowered his head, trying to hide the relief that darted across his face. He wouldn't have admitted it out loud, but being left to tend to the laboratory, even in a minor role like cleaning the glassware, interested him far more than the evening's physical endeavours that Tibus no doubt had in store for the adepts. His eyes lifted again as Merrinar returned to her lecture.

"Now, students, let's move on to the Nigredo aspect..."

~o~0~o~

The sword felt uneasy in his hand, clumsy and heavy. He bounced it up and down a few times, but couldn't get the feel for it. He glanced to the young adept opposite him, a girl half his age and a fraction of his height. He hadn't caught her name, but he imagined that he'd heard a fellow student call her "Issa" or somesuch. She wore a stern scowl, her sword fitting more suitably to her palm than his did. When their eyes met, Bertram felt a twinge of anxiety, for he saw no mercy behind those eyes.

"Swordplay is the stock and trade of a Witcher." Svar, walking amongst the gaggle of adepts, folded his gauntleted hands behind his back. "You must be as at ease with a weapon in your hand as you would be with a mug of ale. It must become a natural extension of who you are, a fragment of your will that you retain control over. You all know the grips and the primary forms for both attack and defence. Now, try them out. Your blades have been dulled, to avoid any... mishaps."

Bertram ducked his head as Svar looked in his direction, the incident with the chicken a week previously was clearly the reason for the comment. Svar turned away, resuming his lecture.

"Now, let us begin with those basic forms. I wish to see how well you flow from block to attack, and back again. Begin!"

Bertram barely had time to blink before the blunt weapon screamed at him, finding his forearm with a meaty smack. Of its own volition, his hand opened at the impact, his sword dropping to the ground. Before he could even bend to pick it up, three more strikes, each even more vicious than the last, found his leg, his back and finally his head. Dazed, seeing stars, the lad dropped on his rump, barely holding onto consciousness. The girl, a harsh look on her face, kicked his dropped weapon over to him.

"Get up. I'd say there's no challenge in fighting you unarmed, but let's be honest, there's no challenge either way."

Still groggy from the blow to the head, Bertram's fingers found their way to the hilt of his blade, and he staggered to his feet. He shook his head to clear the fog of confusion, turning to face the girl, he caught sight of Svar watching on from behind her, his expression unreadable. Bertram paused for just a second, all too aware of the Master's gaze, but then all too quickly the girl was on him again, her steely eyes promising a world of pain before the lesson was over.


	17. Chapter 17- Bertram, Part 3- Gedymin

The forest was still save for the buzzing of the bees in their hives. The swarm moved in rippling waves across the rough-cut wood that formed their current home, slithering in and out of the hives as they bumbled about their daily business. All around them, the forest thrived with vigour, an abundance of flowers and budding branches growing more dense the closer one was to the hives. Through their midst, Bertram toiled stoically, untouched by the insects even as he worked bare-handed.

The young Witcher had come across the immense beehive on a rainy evening, racing through the woodlands to escape from another punishing fencing lesson with Tibus and his chosen students. The hive, previously stretching between two towering trees, had fallen victim to the previous night's storm, knocked loose and sent careening to the forest floor, where now the animals lapped up the spilled honey and crunched down on the shattered combs. Bertram, seeing the opportunity, had set about building a few makeshift hives, using wood stolen from the castle's cooper. The bees had moved to the new refuge remarkably quickly, soon filling the ramshackle constructions with sweet, sticky honey.

It had taken a great deal of time, filching a barrel here, a few glass pipes there, but the young lad had soon cobbled together his own private still, deep in the forest where no students bothered to look. Now, whenever he could, the fledgling Witcher would slip away to this remote refuge to escape from the Masters' gaze, and tinker to his heart's content.

Today was a special day for, finally, his first batch of liquor was ready for sampling. Cautiously, as if handling molten gold, he poured himself the first nip of Kaer Tiele Honey Mead, tasting just a sip at first.

The true strength of the drink eluded him at first, lurking behind the rich, sweet taste that first touched his tongue. Then, like a viper hiding amidst a bed of roses, the true kick of the mead hit him, making his eyes water as his throat burned. He coughed, drawing in a breath that felt raw, ice-cold, and then took another swig. This time, the punch of the alcohol was expected, and had less of an impact, giving him a real chance to explore the flavour.

This was no mere half-oren trough-water. Something about the boy's process had refined the drink into a pure, delectable drink unlike any he had sampled. Extremely pleased with himself, Bertram greedily supped at the newfound pleasure.

So absorbed was he in tasting his new achievement, Bertram failed to hear the crunch of leaves under approaching feet. Only when the bees buzzed harshly in a territorial protest did he think to look around, spotting an intruder in his sanctuary.

The lad was much and such the same age as himself, a little taller maybe. His frame was gaunt, muscles spread thinly over his bones as his teenage years forced his body to sprout in unexpected directions. Even so, his entire body pulsed with contained power, like a coiled spring. His eyes flashed with vicious intent, and his mouth had a curious downward twist to it, warning of a life that had put him through more than any youth deserved to endure, forced him to face many realities he had not been prepared for.

The youth looked around the clearing, taking in Bertram, his beehives, the still, and finally the wooden cup in the young adept's hand. When he finally spoke, his voice was flat, smooth as silk, but with just a flash of something sharp lurking in its depths.

"So this is where you run off to." The lad thrust his thumbs under his belt, sauntering towards Bertram with casual grace. "I'd been wondering. And I guess this is where Master Merrinar's apparatus has gone?"

Bertram flinched at the question, but said nothing. There was nothing to say. He'd been caught red-handed, and now he'd have to face the wrath of the Masters for his theft. He-

"You know, it is quite rude to keep a guest standing around and not offer him a drink." The newcomer said sharply, nodding at Bertram's filled cup. With an unsteady hand, Bertram passed the mead to his unexpected guest.

The lad took a long, silent swig, emptying the cup. For a moment, he stood motionless, then his eyes crossed and he gagged, a harsh rasping cough escaping from his throat. He rubbed at his neck, which Bertram now noticed bore some unusual red marks, before standing to his full height with a broad smile on his face.

"By Melitele's tits, that stuff is stronger than a rampaging fiend!" He passed the cup back to Bertram, slapping the boy's shoulder as he laughed. "You know your stuff, freshblood! Where did you learn to make a brew like that?"

Bertram relaxed at the newcomer's familiarity, a smile touching his lips.

"Well, it's not much different to alchemy, really. You just need to know the right balance of ingredients, and time the mixing carefully." He explained with a humble expression.

"Well, whatever you've done here would put even old Merrinar to shame!" The young Witcher complimented. "That old bat's brews are never as pure or potent as this."

"Thank you, brother adept." Bertram bowed his head. The newcomer waved a dismissive hand.

"None of that here, freshblood." He scoffed. "We're not in a classroom now. No need for the formalities of students. I am Gedymin, formerly of Vizima."

"Bertram." The young adept bowed his head again. "Formerly of- well, of nowhere, now."

"Another tale of tragedy, huh?" Gedymin regarded the young lad's darkening expression. "Trust me, Bertram of Nowhere, you are not alone in such woes. I doubt you will find a single student here who doesn't have some darkness in their past driving them here." He clapped his hands together. "Come! We two should sample some more of that fabulous concoction of yours, while we share our tales with one another."

Bertram grabbed a second cup, filling both of them from a large glass jug of the foaming golden liquid. The pair settled next to the trunk of a tree, watching the hives vibrate with the drone of a thousand tiny insect lives being lived all at once. The peace of the glade overcame them as the duo sipped away at the mead.

"What brought you to Kaer Tiele, Gedymin?" Bertram asked.

"Misfortune." The lad muttered. "Misfortune, poor judgement, and Grandmaster Raven." He took a long swig of his drink. "I was highborn, once upon a time. Son of a wealthy family living the high life in Vizima. Until one day I wasn't. In the blink of an eye, it was all taken away from me, my family slain, my home gone, my name meaningless. So much for the protections of the so-called 'King' of Temeria...

"Anyway, after that I did what I had to do to survive. I stole what I needed, then I stole what I wanted. I threatened, I attacked, eventually I killed to get what was owed to me."

"'Owed' to you?" Bertram questioned. "By whom?"

"By life!" Gedymin spat. "The world took everything from me, I was just taking it back, piece by piece. But eventually my actions caught up to me. The city guard caught me breaking into some old duffer's vaults. I got sentenced without a trial, and found myself on a makeshift gallows, out on the road to Novigrad."

"How did you escape?" Bertram was breathless with suspense.

"The hangman pulled the lever, and I dropped- but my neck did not break. Instead, I found myself hanging there, choking, and then suddenly the pressure was gone!" Gedymin rubbed the red marks around his neck uneasily, the marks of a coarse rope tearing at tender skin, Bertram now realised. "Master Raven had cut me down with a single crossbow bolt straight through the rope. Never seen marksmanship like it. He rode through the lynch mob right up to the gallows and spoke on my behalf. He declared me a damned soul, not fit even to bloody the hands of the townsfolk. He offered to take me away and make me live the Witcher's life, as sure a death sentence as ever there was one, but at least one by which I might achieve some good before I passed. The mob agreed, and soon enough, I was on my way here, hands bound as I followed Raven's horse on foot."

"A harsh lot." Bertram sympathised, but Gedymin shook his head.

"Far better than rotting in a hangman's noose, a warning to passing brigands." He reasoned. "I admit, those first few days, I hated Raven for taking me like he did. I felt as though I'd found a fate worse than dying- that of being another man's servant. But then I realised that the life of a Witcher is not imprisonment, far from it! Becoming a Witcher is finding true freedom, gaining the ability to go where you choose and live as you please."

The pair sat for a few long hours, enjoying the afternoon's warmth as the glow of the mead filled their bodies, a pleasant numbness that began at the toes. They shared tales of their childhoods, talked about various faces at the castle, and laughed at their own misadventures since arriving at Kaer Tiele. After the sun had slid beneath the horizon, the pair were thoroughly intoxicated, barely standing, the jug of mead now empty at their feet. As the darkness crept in, they fell silent for a few ponderous minutes before Gedymin nudged Bertram in the ribs.

"I like you, Bertram." He murmured. "You 'n' me, I've a feeling we're gonna be good friends."

"I'll drink to that." Bertram raised his cup in a toast. Gedymin chuckled as he clacked his cup against his comrade's.

As the duo downed the last of their mead, Bertram couldn't help but smile, content in the company of the first friendly soul he had met since coming to Kaer Tiele.


	18. Chapter 18- Bertram, Part 4- Tibus

Signs class.

Bertram dreaded those two words more than any others. The magical theory always seemed to elude him, his first wolf's head medallion had come out of the mold a misshapen mass that looked more like a badger, and every time he tried to sit and meditate, a wasp, vole or other creature would always turn up to break his focus and shatter his connection to the arcane realm. Worse, it was one of Tibus' classes, so the young lad was always picked out for the cruellest demonstrations or to be used as target practice for the other students. The fact that Bertram seemed to have almost no magical potential only served to further enrage the Witcher, the old Hunter seeming to think that they boy was magically resistant just to spite him. Even now, the Witcher stalked back and forth before the row of adepts, eyes narrowing as he looked to Bertram.

"Today we continue our work with the Quen Sign." He barked. "You already know the theory, the rune and the correct pronunciation. Now we put it into practice. Find a partner, and grab a training sword."

Bertram turned, his eyes seeking out Gedymin, but before he could even take a step in the direction of his friend, a powerful hand the size of a dinner plate clamped down on his shoulder.

"Not you, freshblood!" Tibus growled. "You'll be working with me. Last thing I need is your useless sign exploding in your face and crippling one of my students."

Bertram fell silent, the flushing tide of embarrassment mixed with anger flooding his cheeks. He caught one last glimpse of Gedymin staring on in consternation before he was dragged away by the Witcher. In moments, he found himself alone with the Master in the middle of a ring of watchful adepts, all more focused on the spectacle before them than their own lesson. Tibus hefted one of the training swords, a hefty, splintering chunk of wood with a crude handle that was as much a sword as a scarecrow was a man. When he spoke, a dangerous glint glowed in the back of his eyes.

"When I swing, you will cast your sign. Protect yourself, or you will be struck." His second hand found the hilt of his weapon, bringing it up into a ready stance. "And... begin!"

Bertram's hands only rose halfway towards casting the sign before the weapon struck him, a thunderous blow to his ribs that drove the air from his lungs as he staggered to the side. Pain blossomed in his body as he stumbled, barely keeping his feet under himself. Rubbing at his sure-to-be bruising side, the adept turned to see Tibus readying for another swing.

"Again!"

This time Bertram did manage to make the sign, arms crossing in front of himself defensively, but his focus failed and he couldn't muster the magical energy needed, the training sword slamming into his crossed forearms brutally. Once again the student stumbled, hands shaking as the shock vibrated through his bones.

"You're not trying, freshblood!" Tibus taunted. "Again!"

"QU-Unff!"

The next blow struck Bertram mid-incantation, half of the syllable of the Quen Sign escaping his lips before the weapon swept the feet from under him. His back slammed down onto the dirt painfully, skull cracking against the cobblestones to send stars wheeling through his vision. The adept gasped, breath struggling to fill his lungs.

"You test my patience, whelpling." Tibus sneered. "Perhaps you'd be better off slinking back to whatever gutter the Nameless Wanderer dragged you out of."

All fear, uncertainty and anxiety vanished from Bertram's mind at this last comment, replaced instead by a red mist of rage. With not a little effort, the lad struggled to his feet, swaying unsteadily. His eyes locked with the demonic yellow ones of the Master, his chest puffing as he glowered at the old Hunter. Tibus' lip twitched at the unspoken challenge, his brow creasing in anger. The Witcher raised the training sword again.

"Alright, boy. Have it your way. We'll go again." His hands twisted around the hilt as he drew back to swing again.

"QUEN!"

This time Bertram felt it, the rush of the power surging up through him. His pulse raced as the energy found its way out through his movements, setting his nerves ablaze. Blood spurted from his nostril as a blood vessel ruptured somewhere inside his skull. He tensed as the sign formed in his mind, the weapon still swinging towards him in a mighty arc...

Crak!

The blow never hit, and all present fell silent for a half-moment. Bertram opened his clenched shut eyes to see Tibus stagger back, training sword still in hand. The weapon now bore a large crack, roughly at the wooden blade's centre. The upper half of the weapon clung to the rest by a single, ragged splinter. In the silent instant that all regarded it, said splinter gave way and the top half of the blade dropped to the ground with a loud clatter. Tibus stared at the broken weapon with a surprised expression.

Bertram, drained, almost passing out from the rush of blood that filled his ears and threatened to burst his skull, felt a half-smile crawl across his face. Triumph, at defying the Witcher. Pride at harnessing something that had previously eluded him.

Barely had the student any time to revel in his victory, however, before Tibus' expression became more grave, irritation and fury twisting his features. The Witcher's grip on the broken weapon shifted and, before Bertram could even think, he lashed out, swinging back and forth to deliver a savage beating. In his weakened state, it did not take long for Bertram to fall under the Master's rage, curling up to protect his head. Eventually, after what felt like an eternity, Tibus relented, panting breathlessly as he turned from the bruised and bloody adept to the rest of his class.

"Let that be a lesson to the rest of you. Never drop your guard while an armed threat remains." He gasped. "Now, get to practicing! Backs straight, voices clear, minds resolute! Don't let me catch any of you going easy on your partners, or you will face the same lessons as this Wanderer's whelp." He spared a backwards glance at the moaning Bertram. "Someone clean up this mess!"

The Witcher stalked off, leaving Gedymin and another of the adepts to help the barely conscious Bertram to his feet and away from the raining ground.

~o~0~o~

Evening rolled in, cooling the stones of the castle after a long day of sunshine. Standing atop the battlements, Bertram winced as he adjusted the bindings of his gambeson, the bruised ribs underneath still throbbing painfully. Thankfully nothing had been broken by Tibus' rage, but it also meant that his injuries did not warrant a valuable Swallow potion, Master Merrinar's supplies kept only for truly life-threatening injuries. Thus, the young Witcher hopeful would have to simply wait the pain out. He sighed, leaning on the still-warm stonework as he watched the sun retreat beyond the horizon.

"If I had an oren for every time I've seen an adept up here with a stare like that, I'd be a very wealthy Witcher indeed."

The sudden voice behind him almost sent Bertram tumbling over the battlements in surprise, the young lad spinning to see Master Svar standing there, arms crossed as he watched the youngster impassively. The Witcher chuckled at Bertram's surprise before raising an apologetic hand.

"I did not mean to startle you, young one." He calmed. "You seem troubled."

"Just... just thinking, that's all." Bertram mumbled in reply.

"Mm-hmm." The Witcher nodded. "This is a favoured spot for 'just thinking', it would seem. Usually by a student who has just had to endure one of Tibus' classes."

"You heard about that." It wasn't a question.

"Child, I don't know if you've noticed, but nothing within these walls escapes my attention. One should always be aware of what occurs within his own kingdom."

Bertram's brow rose curiously at the strange comment, but he chose not to pursue it, certain he would not get a straight answer. Instead he turned back to the sunset, sighing as he settled down on his elbows, resting his chin on folded hands.

"Why does he seem to hate me so? What did I do to earn such scorn?"

"Surprised as you may be to hear it, this is nothing personal." The Witcher replied. "Tibus' issue is not with you, but rather with the one who recruited you to our guild."

"The Nameless Witcher?" Bertram turned at that. Since arriving at Kaer Tiele, he'd faced nothing but evasiveness and half-whispered answers to any questions regarding the mysterious figure who had directed him to the monster hunters' guild. "Everyone in this castle seems to grow quiet whenever the Wanderer is mentioned."

"It's... not a comfortable topic for us Witchers to talk about." Svar sighed. "But probably one we should be more open about, in truth."

"Who is the Nameless Witcher?" Bertram asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.

"They are no one." Svar answered cryptically. "And yes, I did say 'they'. Many men and women alike who have forsaken the Path of the Hunt, for one reason or another. Perhaps they killed another Witcher. Perhaps they unleashed a demon or a djinn from its prison. Perhaps, in their haste to fulfil a contract, they overdosed on Thunderbolt potions and slew an entire village in their frenzy. Whatever their reasons, these Witchers turn their back on their school and live a life of self-imposed exile, abandoning the way of the blade. They remove their names from the records of the guild's archivists, erasing any memory of them from our history. Eventually, they pass into anonymity, as those they trained with and under are slain in the line of duty. Perhaps whispers of their crimes remain, stains upon the guild's legacy, but nothing else can tell of their existence.

"The Nameless refuse to raise their blades in anger, scorning contracts and living wild among the monsters. Instead of hunting beasts, they scour the land for new Witchers- children able bodied and fit to learn our trade. They are often the ones to hunt down those marked by the Law of Surprise. All too often they follow in the wake of marauding war bands or marching armies, picking over the devastation like crows over carrion, seeking orphans like yourself to send to the guild. Sometimes, they snatch children from their beds, a shadow in the night. It is because of their actions that many a villager would spit upon the Witchers, cursing our guild as child-snatchers, and worse.

"And yet... every child they send to us is touched somehow by the hand of Destiny. All have a significant fate before them. It is not known how the Nameless Wanderers find these children, what manner of augury or sorcery they use, but a child sent by their hand must not be ignored."

"So what issue could Tibus have with a wandering recluse?"

"Oftentimes, the destiny of the children the Wanderers send to us is darkened by the black deeds of the Witcher who found them. Some become assassins, or unleash the downfall of kingdoms, or even commit foul deeds that force them to become Nameless Witchers in turn.

"Tibus trained one such child, took her on as his personal student. Some said that she reminded him of a daughter he had forsaken to take up the blades of a Witcher, others that he simply felt the hand of Destiny guiding him to take her in. Regardless, they became as close as kin, she growing to become a formidable Witcher, he growing ever more proud, and some would say even genteel as the years passed."

Svar paused, moving to stand next to Bertram, similarly leaning on the battlements. Bertram, struggling to picture the Witcher as Svar was describing him, absent-mindedly shuffled aside to make space.

"Sadly, as time passed, she became restless, troubled. She longed for the open road, the life of a Witcher, but Tibus feared for her safety, that she was not ready for the Trials. She would not be dissuaded. Before even undergoing the Trial of Grasses, she ran away from the castle, a stolen silver sword in one hand. She hunted down the Wanderer who had originally found her, or perhaps he found her, Destiny drawing them together like a weaver twisting threads between her fingers.

"Together, they conspired to perform her Trials, free of the confines of Kaer Marter. Together, they put her through the Trial of Grasses, unsupervised, without the full set of potions and reagents most Witchers would need. Something went wrong, and the girl was deformed, mutilated in body, but also in mind. Something within her warped and turned black as onyx stone."

Bertram found himself riveted by the tale, unable to avert his gaze from the Witcher Master, unaware of the darkening night around him.

"In her madness, she slew the Wanderer, killing the one who had inflicted the life of a Witcher upon her. No one can say whether the foresight that had driven him to recruit her could perhaps have warned him of this fate, or if he wandered into his demise blindly, not that it matters much. Either way, he acted believing he was following the will of Fate itself, and I doubt any such knowledge would have convinced him to act otherwise."

"And what happened to the girl?" Bertram tensed, his breath coming in shallow rasps.

"She roamed the land, killing as she went. Villagers spoke of a screaming, vile terror that crusaded through the night. At first, she struck only at bandits, killing those caught out alone in the woods at night. She struck with the ferocity of a werewolf, the strength of a fiend, and the cunning of a vampire. Several bandit kings fell to her, ripped to shreds as they tried to hunt her down. Then, once the land had been cleared of bandits, she moved on to the villages. Flocks of sheep torn apart, a miller's son here, a farmer's daughter there, eventually the peasants began to take note.

"First huntsmen were sent out, most of whom failed to return. Then, the local militia was sent in, with the hopes that strength in numbers would suffice. As they failed to achieve success, the local baron took charge, along with several of the king's favoured knights. She tore through the seasoned warriors as though they were nothing, finally ripping the baron's head from his shoulders. Finally, at this latest failure, the king realised the gravity of the situation and summoned a Witcher. The Witcher that was sent to answer the call was none other than Tibus."

"Did he kill her?" Bertram asked, unable to imagine the Witcher plagued by any emotion other than rage.

"Eventually, yes. He saw the monster she had become, and knew that there was no bringing back the girl that he had raised." Svar stared off into the distance, his glowing eyes glinting with some unreadable thought. "Theirs was a long and bitter battle, for unlike any beast we are trained to face, she carried the skills and knowledge of a fully trained Witcher, and understanding of Tibus' every move. They fought for three days and three nights. Eventually, finally, Tibus was almost slain, taking many injuries that would have felled a lesser man. He collapsed at her feet. Seeing him like this, broken and bloody, awoke something within the girl. The beast that had claimed her mind retreated and, in a brief moment of clarity, the girl saw Tibus, the man who had been as a father to her, seemingly dead by her hand. Overcome by anguish, she cast Igni upon her own flesh, and burned."

Svar lowered his gaze, studying a gauntleted hand.

"Tibus slept for five days after that, only his Witcher mutations sustaining him through his devastating injuries. When he woke, he found the girl's blackened bones before him. Gathering them up, he didn't even pause to collect the gold from the contract, returning to Kaer Marter immediately." The Master waved a hand in the vague direction of the forest. "He buried her bones somewhere out there, overlooking a stream they had once trained by. And at the same time, he buried a part of himself, leaving a hole in his heart that has given a home to rage."

Sighing, Svar stood up straight, turning to look directly at Bertram.

"That is why Tibus hates the Nameless Witchers, Bertram. They gave him the one thing that he truly cared about in his life, and then their dark influence ripped it away from him. He is convinced that all children sent by them are cursed beyond redemption, and cannot tolerate their presence within the walls of this castle."

"I'd be inclined to agree with him, after a tale like that." Bertram murmured. "From the sounds of things, her life was all curse, no destiny."

"Was it?" Svar asked with a raised eyebrow. "Then think upon this- the baron that she slew was conspiring with another king to subvert his current liege. Their scheme, had it not been revealed upon his demise, would have ended with the wholesale slaughter of thousands, peasant and soldier alike. Some would say she fulfilled her destiny, saved far more lives than she took, then Tibus was sent to put an end to her afterwards. Once her bones were laid to rest, the land knew a golden age of peace and safety, without even bandits to trouble the land's inhabitants. Would you not say that is a noble destiny to leave behind?"

Reaching into a pouch on his belt, the Master produced a vial of glimmering red liquid- a Swallow potion.

"Here, take this for the pain. You'll be healed up by the morning. Seek me out after breakfast. You'll no longer need to worry about Tibus. From now on, your studies are with me."

"Yes, Master Svar." Bertram replied quietly, lost in thought. "Thank you, Master Svar."

The Witcher smiled, a small, yet quite warm gesture, then turned on his heel and marched in the direction of the castle's main building, leaving Bertram to his thoughts.


	19. Chapter 19- Bertram, Part 5- Fate

Rain spattered on the leaves, a rhythmic cacophony bouncing back and forth between the trees. The odd rumble of thunder in the distance heralded the arrival of a bank of much darker clouds, bringing night to the woodlands much earlier than expected.

Hunching underneath his cloak, Bertram's frozen fingers struggled to pull the soaked fabric closer around his frame, a lame attempt to keep the warmth in as the fat droplets falling from the sky threatened to chill him to the bone. The young lad's rapidly thickening beard caught the drops like a net, allowing them to bunch together like grapes on a vine before continuing their journey to the ground. Finding brief shelter at the base of a broad oak tree, he shook his head vigorously to shake free the few drops that clung to his face, fumbling for the flask tied to his belt.

A quick draw of the mead stored in the flask soon sent a little more warmth flooding through his bones, revitalising the young Witcher adept to continue his journey. The castle wasn't far now, his trip to the nearby village of Chamrey for a few difficult to obtain herbs almost over. Steeling himself, Bertram made ready to stride back out into the downpour.

The sound was so faint that Bertram imagined it to be a conjuring of his mind at first, a tiny flicker of noise at the very edge of his hearing. Cautiously, he dropped into a crouch, pressing his body against the trunk of the tree as he looked about for whatever might have reached out for his attention. With near-silent steps, he sidled around the tree, glancing further down the road ahead.

A wagon lay on its side, one wheel snapped off and the cloth roof torn open. A single pony lay before the stricken vehicle, belly ripped asunder as its guts spilled across the dirt path in a red tide. Trade goods had tumbled from within the wagon, littering the road. Flies darted to and fro above blood-soaked grain, feeding voraciously.

A knot of anxiety in his gut, Bertram slowly approached the wagon, feet shaking as he put one in front of the other. As he circled around, he came across the body of a dog, slain in a similar manner to the pony. He knelt next to the corpse, reaching out tentatively as he went in for a closer look. The animal was huge, brown pelt pulled tight over powerful muscles, jaws locked in a fearsome snarl. The she-beast obviously had some wolf in her bloodline, none too distant.

The noise touched Bertram's ears again, a faint, whispering sigh coming from inside the wagon. He scuttled over, clambering past a few discarded sacks of grain to look inside.

The wagon's owner lay in the midst of his devastated belongings. Whatever had attacked the wagon had wrought terrible devastation upon the driver, a scene almost too repulsive to comprehend. Throat ripped open, face locked in a rictus of pure terror, his hands were bloody, nails broken as though he'd clawed at his assailant. His belly bore three long, straight cuts, deep, festering. Bertram knelt close, nose wrinkling as the sweet-rotten scent registered with him. Venom, most definitely, although it was difficult to determine the sort. Whatever it was, it had caused the flesh to begin mouldering prematurely. Perhaps some kind of necrophage? He reached out to touch the corpse, shifting it a little to the side, gagging as the head rolled back with a sickening crack, the already damaged neck snapping. Then, as the dead man slumped to the side, Bertram heard the sound again.

A faint whine, little more than an indignant squeak, came from a small sack beside the dead driver. The burlap bag squirmed, something inside struggling to escape. With cautious hands, the young Witcher picked up the bag, untangling whatever had become trapped inside. Tentatively, he reached inside.

What Bertram pulled out of the sack was little more than a ball of brown fluff, a tiny, wriggling creature that from a certain angle could be called a puppy. As Bertram regarded it, the fierce wounds on the dead hound outside became clear- the frantic injuries of not just a pet guarding its master, but a parent protecting its offspring.

The diminutive creature struggled in his grip, letting out a grunt of challenge. Her tiny brown eyes blinked rapidly as she opened her jaws, white teeth snapping at the air. Bertram chuckled as the creature yapped at him.

"You're a feisty little thing!" He poked at the pup's belly, the beast clawing at him with tiny limbs. She squeaked as he shifted his grip, curling an arm around her to hold her to his breast, wrapping a fold of his cloak around her for warmth. Smiling, he reached up to scratch behind the pup's ears, eliciting a satisfied growl from the tiny animal. He turned from the wagon, moving in the direction of the castle.

"Come now, little one. Let's get you home. There'll be a warm fire, some hot beef stew cooking in the kitchen, and you can have a spot on my bed."

The pup grunted inquisitively, pushing its head against the adept's hand. Bertram smiled broadly.

"Some of the Masters may not be happy to have you around, but we don't have to worry about them. You'll get to meet Gedymin, and Master Svar. But first, we'll need to give you a name."

He paused on the track, glancing back to the stricken wagon. There was not much to be done for it or it's inhabitants. If ghouls or other corpse-eaters were to blame, they would be back with the darkening night. He didn't even have a way to dig a shallow grave for the fallen wagon driver. Quelling the pang of guilt, he turned back to the road ahead, pressing onwards steadfastly. He glanced back down at the pup, inspiration striking.

"I think I will call you Lavinia." He smiled as she wrinkled her snout, sneezing. "Yes, Lavinia. Come on! Let's go home."

~o~0~o~

Bertram leaned back against the trunk of the tree, sighing in contentment as he basked in the warm glow of the morning sun, burning away the dawn's frosty beginning. Somewhere close by, Lavinia was mostly likely sticking her nose into somewhere it didn't belong, perhaps the cook's stewpot, or looking for discarded bones in the waste piles the castle's steward scavenged to enrich his crops. Wherever she was, no doubt she would be found, yelled at, and scamper away with her usual mischievousness, only to return unabashed and to the frustration of the castle's staff.

Before him, Master Tibus yelled harshly at another huddle of students, new recruits still adjusting to the harsh life of Kaer Tiele. The Witcher stalked among the new adepts like a fox among chickens, spreading panic wherever his attention fell. He bellowed out commands, the students blundering about in a frenzy to meet his demands.

"How're they shaping up?"

Gedymin's question startled Bertram out of his absent-minded reverie, the more experienced student emerging from behind the tree to throw himself down next to his friend. He produced a flask from somewhere underneath his shirt, offering it to Bertram. The young lad took a swig, wincing as the fiery liquid burned his thoat, a nip of the harsh vodka that Merrinar brewed in the castle's cellars. Bertram didn't ask how Gedymin had acquired it. The young student had his ways, not all of them strictly abiding by the castle's rules. Instead of quizzing his friend, Bertram simply nodded towards the new recruits.

"They show some promise. A few with natural talent."

"Good. Usable recruits have been thin on the ground lately." Gedymin grunted.

"The Masters haven't been out recruiting much in recent months." Bertram shrugged. "The winter roads being closed, and the warbands roaming the countryside..."

"Aye, these past months, the castle has felt awfully closed off." Gedymin took a swig from his flask. "Feels like I'm stuck on some forsaken rock out among the Skellige Isles. Thank the gods for your little distillery out in the woods, otherwise I may have gone mad long ago." He was silent as another gulp drained half of his flask. "I heard what happened on the training field."

"You... did?" Bertram's heart sank. "I'd hoped word wouldn't get out."

"That's the third time you've tried the Gauntlet." Gedymin said, referring to the massive construction of wood, metal and ropes that formed a centrepiece of the Witchers' training regime. Something resembling the offspring of a gallows and an obstacle course, the Gauntlet was one of the primary causes of injury amongst the younger adepts. "It's only a matter of time before you end up coming away from it with an injury even a dose of White Raffard won't be able to heal."

"It's not like I have a choice." Bertram replied. "I have to master the Gauntlet before I can proceed with my training."

Gedymin sighed, an issue still bothering him. He shifted uncomfortably, regarding his friend with a cautious stare.

"Do you, though?" He asked.

"Do I what?"

"Must you proceed with your training, Bertram? What is there in becoming a Witcher for you?"

"What are you getting at?" Bertram asked, confused.

"The Witcher's life is not for everyone, my friend." Gedymin answered earnestly. "I am worried you may be pushing too hard for a life that you don't need to pursue."

"Don't need-? Gedymin, what choice do I have?" Bertram asked, exasperated. "It's not like I have a home I can return to, a family who misses me. This school is everything I have!"

"But you don't have to pursue the life of a killer." His friend tried to reason. "Look at your performance during the last fencing class! That girl kicked seventeen different kinds of shit out of you before you even moved your sword into a decent kind of block! Sure, you can brew one hell of a potion and you know your Fleders from your Garkains, but knowledge isn't everything for a Witcher. When was the last time you cast a sign without getting a nose bleed?"

"I'll master it, someday!" Bertram protested. "I just need more time..."

"Time! What time?" Gedymin waved an expansive hand. "You keep pushing yourself, keep on trying to force your way through these trials, you're gonna end up crippled, or worse." He turned, locking his gaze with that of his friend. "You're my friend, Bertram. I do not want to see you hurt pursuing a life you do not need to seek."

"Well, perhaps you should worry about your own trials, and let me worry about mine." Bertram huffed stubbornly.

Gedymin opened his mouth to say something further, but closed it again, remaining in silence. He quietly took another pull from his flask, turning his gaze back to the courtyard.

Before the pair, the students in the courtyard lined up, Tibus yelling at the slowest of them. He stalked behind them, shoving at those who failed to create a clear, regimented line. Finally, once they had all moved into formation as he desired, the Witcher began barking commands at them.

"Focus your minds, make the sign, and... IGNI!"

The students followed Tibus' gestures, thrusting their hands out before them as they channeled the magical energies. Some sagged to their knees as the magic flowed through them, their legs buckling under them as their signs went astray. Others swayed, but kept their balance, a small gout of flame escaping their palms. One, with an audible groan, toppled to the ground, insensible. Tibus raced over, kneeling next to the unconscious adept. With a few barked orders, he commanded some of the student's fellows to carry him from the courtyard, in the direction of the castle infirmary. The Master straightened, looking about with a foul expression. Bertram watched the display with careful eyes, all too aware of his own shortcomings when it came to Signs. Almost instinctively, he began tracing the signs in the air, muttering the words as he pawed at his medallion.

"Bertram..." Gedymin began, but was swiftly cut off.

"I'm not discussing this, Gedymin!" Bertram snapped, infuriated at losing his focus. "I will not be dissuaded from taking part in the trials. I am going to become a Witcher. I have to."

"Bertram, listen to me!"

"No, YOU listen!" Bertram jumped to his feet, wheeling to face his friend. "I've lost too much to give up on the best chance I've had to find a life with purpose behind it! I don't care what you or anyone else says, I will go through with the Trials. I will succeed, and I shall be a Witcher!"

"Is that what you think, boy?"

Bertram whirled at Tibus' question, shocked to see the Witcher Master standing directly behind him. The old Hunter had approached so silently, even the normally observant Gedymin was caught off-guard. The Witcher bore a cruel sneer.

"You think you even have a chance of getting through the trials and becoming one of us?" He laughed. "Aye, and one day I'll be crowned Queen of Cintra! I don't know what nonsense Svar has been feeding you, but you've no hope. I mean, look at you! Soft as the day you were born, can't even hold a bow right, can barely lift a sword... I'd make a better Witcher out of a Nekker."

"I'll show you!" Bertram puffed. "Some day, I'll be a Witcher, a far better one than you ever were!"

"Oh, really?" Tibus' eyebrow quirked at the boast, the young Witcher stumbling headfirst into the old Master's snare. "Then perhaps you'd care to prove it?" He lifted a hand, gesturing to his gaggle of students, all watching the confrontation warily. "Go on. Show my students how the mighty Bertram casts Igni. Put me in my place and show us all how it's done, 'Master Witcher'."

Bertram bristled at the Witcher's barbed words, realising that rising to the bait would be foolish. Even so, he could not fight the urge, the pressure of so many watching eyes weighing upon him. He growled fiercely, irritated to be backed into such a position. Finally, through grit teeth, he seethed a response.

"Fine!"

"Bertram-" Gedymin reached out to grab his friend's arm, but the youngster just shook him off, the fires of pride and rage fuelling him. Stepping forward, the lad made sure to shove past the grinning Tibus, slamming his shoulder against the mocking Witcher hard enough to force him a step back as he made his way towards the centre of the courtyard. He marched out in front of the wide-eyed adepts, all of them too timid to speak out or even meet his gaze.

The young lad paused for a moment, looking about with wide, angry eyes. The students lowered their gazes. Behind him, Tibus leered. Gedymin watched on with a worried stare, his brows creased as he chewed his lip. The air of the courtyard was still.

Bertram's feet shuffled on the cobblestones, moving into a steady, powerful stance. Facing away from the onlookers, he turned his gaze to the far side of the courtyard, where a training dummy stood ready for the day's fencing training. That would do. He closed his eyes.

All was silent as Bertram drew in a long, deep breath, trying to find a quiet pool of concentration within his mind. His brain boiled with countless thoughts, eddies of distraction that threatened to sweep him away, but finally, he found his spot, a tiny fragment of tranquility. He grabbed hold of it, wrestling it close to his heart. His thoughts stilled for but a moment.

A shaking hand rose, tracing a triangular motion through the air. The first time, his hand swayed so much that the rune he traced was almost circular in motion. The second, while more accurate, still strayed too wide. As his fingers moved for the third time, Tibus spoke up.

"We're waiting, Wanderer's Whelp!" He mocked. "Do you intend to lull us into a slumber with that dance, or are we going to see a practice of the Witcher's arts?"

Rage surged through Bertram's veins, an unstoppable tide, and with it, a flow of magical energies unlike anything the young lad had even thought to touch. The power overwhelmed the mere Human it had chosen as its outlet, a flood trying to squeeze its way through a minuscule outlet.

Flames ignited the air around him, an inferno that towered up into the sky. Fury and fire blazed around the adept, accompanied by a terrible, raw, primal scream. At first, the adept thought it was his fellow students, crying out in terror at the unprecedented display of power, but after a moment his throat creaked and he realised the scream was coming from his own chest. The fires blotted out all view of the students, the castle, the very cobbles under his feet.

The flames turned from red, to yellow, to white, blinding the adept. In a moment, his screams were covered over by the howl of the flames, the roar filling his ears until nothing else registered, could register. In a world of such colossal noise, pain and heat, nothing else could possibly exist. Then, with a sudden, cracking sound like the world breaking in half, everything went black.

~o~0~o~

The first thing to assault Bertram's senses was the acrid stench of burning. Smoke choked his nostrils like a thick, cloying blanket. Judging by the heat radiating off his skin, he suspected most of the burning was him. Then, after a brief instant of consciousness, the next thing to hit him was the pain. Electrifying waves of agony assaulted his nerves, every fibre of his being suddenly alive with intensity. He gasped, the long, rasping breath scraping at every inch of his throat, his lungs threatening to tear from the motion.

Several bones were broken, a few ribs, his wrist, two of his fingers, maybe his ankle, all crying out for his attention. He could feel blood streaming from his nose, filling his mouth with salty red liquid that stuck to the roof of his mouth. Something also leaked from his ears, although whether it was blood or the translucent sticky yellow fluid he'd seen come from other adepts who'd taken too many blows to the head, he couldn't tell. The blood in his mouth slipped down his throat, making the young adept choke.

As his body convulsed, Bertram opened his eyes, wincing at the sudden brightness of the sunlight. He squinted, his vision blurry. He could see a few dark shapes, no more than blobs, running around his prone form. Beneath him, he could see the stones turned a scorched black, tendrils of smoke wisping up around him.

"Somebody get Merrinar!" Tibus' voice cut through his momentary deafness, harsh, loud. Presumably the Witcher was one of the blobs moving about. "You! Gedymin! Get him up and into the infirmary. By Melitele's cunt, what a mess..."

An arm encircled Bertram under the armpits, hoisting him up onto a supportive shoulder. Gedymin murmured a few words in his ear, but Bertram was too dazed to make them out. Another adept raced over, catching his other side and sharing the load. Slowly, gently, they made their way towards the main building of the castle.

"Get a move on!" Tibus yelled. "Someone get that useless lump a fresh change of clothes!" He paused, taking a long, derisive sniff. "Preferably brown breeches, for fuck's sake..."

Bertram felt a flush of red fill his cheeks, but the heat was soon lost amongst the ferocity of the rest of his injuries. Before the half-dead adept could even muster up the energy to feel embarrassed by the Master's words or by the truth that he could already sense making its way down one of his legs, Tibus was gone, barking more orders at another pair of adepts. Then, the darkness of the main doors of the castle loomed ahead, but the adept was lost to senselessness before he'd even moved a foot inside.

~o~0~o~

When next Bertram awoke, he was lying in one of the soft white beds of the infirmary, far more luxurious than his own cot in the dormitory. For a brief second, he revelled in the quiet comfort of his new residence, enjoying the softness of the bed linen. Then, just as quickly as he'd forgotten it, all the memories of what had put him there came flooding back, of the courtyard, of Master Tibus, of the Sign, of the devastation.

Bertram jerked up in bed, but only made it halfway up before pain caused stars to reel inside his skull, his vision clouding over. He groaned as he sank back into his bed, all too aware of the bandages and poultices that now restricted him. Sucking in air through clenched teeth, he opened his eyes to survey the room, taking in the brightly lit windows, the high ceiling, Master Svar sitting in the chair opposite him, the table with its potion bottles-

The young adept jolted again as the Witcher's presence registered with him, the reflex to jump up and bow before his Master overcoming his pain just long enough to send fresh shafts of agony through his form. Once again, he sank back into his bedding, seething with pain. Svar simply regarded the whole process, face unmoving, unreadable.

"That was possibly the most reckless thing I have ever seen within these walls, student." He chided. "And that's saying a lot, seeing as only Witchers live here."

Bertram could only groan, lifting his unbandaged hand to rub his forehead. Even that motion brought forth intense agony. Svar, expression unshifted, stood to walk over to the bed. Finally, he let out a sigh, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

"What am I supposed to do with you?"

"I'm sorry, Master. I'll do better next time, I promise!"

"Bertram..." Svar let out another long sigh, and the adept felt his heart sink to see his Master so disappointed. "I like you, child. You have a good spirit, and a keen mind. But in your future I can see only two paths- you can continue as you are, and wind up killed in the Trials, or you can forsake this foolish fantasy of becoming a Witcher and find another way to be useful to this school."

The Witcher raised a hand as Bertram opened his mouth to speak, silencing his student.

"I can already see in your eyes that you will choose what you think is the brave path, the path of stupidity, so you know what? There is no choice in this matter. Once you are healed, report to the kitchens. I will make certain that they have a place for you."

And with that cold, emotionless delivery, the Witcher turned on his heel, marching away from the teary-eyed youngster. In seconds, he was gone, the wooden door of the infirmary slamming behind him.

Bertram slumped deeper into his pillow, eyes burning with more than just pain. His brain reeled from the swift judgement of the Master, the sudden removal of his status as a Witcher hopeful, the stripping of his life as an adept. He wanted to yell out, but a lump of anguish blocked his throat, a tide of monumental sadness that he found himself drowning in.

Nobody would admit it, but all through the remainder of that night and the following day, the corridor outside the infirmary was filled with the tormented moaning and wild cries, equal parts anger, frustration and deep, primal sorrow, of the smallest and loneliest creature in all of Kaer Tiele.

~o~0~o~

The Nightsabers sat, riveted, as Bertram finished his tale. Frederick hadn't even noticed the chill of the night creeping in, darkness closing in as the torches in the courtyard grew dim.

"And there you have it-" Bertram brought his story to an end. "That was how Bertram the Witcher died. But it was also how Bertram the Cleaner, Bertram the Butler, and finally Bertram the Steward was born, and in a way, I am glad of it. I can do far more for the school with abacus, purse and soup ladle than many Witchers ever achieve with sword and Sign. I've seen many friends come and go over the years. Merrinar was killed by a pack of ghouls in Aldersberg. Tibus was lynched after failing to lift a curse from some local baron. Countless others have passed from greater and lesser dangers. I would surely be one of them, even if by some crazy chance I had managed to survive the Trials. No, far better it is for me to serve here, now, like this. Now, I get to watch you all set off on the Path, and help you to find your way in the Witcher's world. Sometimes, I get to see you return, and we can share honeyed mead as you tell me of your adventures. That- that is when I am happiest, and most grateful to Svar for saving my life. I thank him for his wisdom every night, before sleep takes me."

The smiling Steward's eyes shifted from the students to a point behind them. His expression grew serious.

"Looks like your Master has returned." His voice dropped. "Time for your hunt to begin. Best of luck, my children! Try not to die!"

With a flourish, Bertram dismounted his stone lion and, with a few fast steps, he was gone, leaving the fascinated students still mulling over his tale. Frederick hesitated a moment before turning to face the approaching Master Njall, still occupied with the Steward's tale, and his cautions about the harsh realities of Witcher life, but soon shook his mind free. There was a hunt to focus on.


	20. Chapter 20- Tracking With Algir

The night had grown even darker by the time Bertram finished relating his tale, the torches now sputtering as their tar cores burned out. Out of the darkness came Njall, the looming Skelliger heralded first by the feral glow of his eyes, two ominous stars appearing out of the night. Over his shoulder he carried a heavy sack, the hilts of over a dozen swords visible out of the top of it. In spite of the immense weight of his burden, Njall appeared unaware of the load, barely even slowing his pace. He flung the sack down on the ground, gesturing for the Nightsabers to help themselves to its contents. In moments, each of the young adepts was armed. Frederick hefted the newly acquired blade in his hand, testing its weight. The weapon felt strange, clumsy in his grip. Uneasy, he slipped the blade into his belt, all too aware of its weight at his hip.

"Nightsabers, gather round!" The Skellige Witcher barked, his students swiftly obeying. "Now, as you may have heard, we have an issue with some beasts in the forests around here. Monsters have been spotted roaming the woods, and more besides. We have been tasked with hunting down whatever we can find within a night's March of the castle. Master Algir will lead you to the first signs of monster activity nearby, and help you track down these creatures. Master Toril and myself will be with you to guide you in tracking down and dispatching these beasts. Do exactly as we instruct you, and you will live. Disobey, and you will more than likely die. Do not stray from our side."

The Nightsabers nodded silently, tension visible in their faces. Frederick swallowed nervously, a knot of worry growing in his throat. He glanced over to the previously unknown Witcher who had arrived with Bertram and Algir, presumably Master Toril. The dark-haired Witcher's eyes darted about among the adepts, picking out the anxiety and mild fear running through their ranks. Her gaze met Frederick's for but a moment, narrowing as they appraised the former mage's apprentice. Then, just as quickly, she turned her scrutiny elsewhere. Meanwhile, Algir stepped forward and, with a wave of his hand, bade the students to follow him. In moments, they had left the safety of the castle, venturing out into the dark night.

"Times have grown dark when monsters can draw this close to Kaer Marter unhindered." Algir spoke. "In times past you couldn't find even a lone drowner within five day's March of the castle. We've grown complacent."

"What manner of beasts should we expect?" Darren spoke up.

"We're not sure." The Master replied. "We have yet to see the actual creatures yet. That is why we are bringing you along. We hope that having many eyes to search the forest will turn up clues we would otherwise miss."

The Master led the group beyond the border of the forest, slowing somewhat as the underbrush thickened. After only a few minutes, barely enough time for the castle to vanish from view behind them, Algir had brought them to a small clearing, no more than ten or twenty metres wide.

Inside the clearing, devastation awaited. Scorch marks covered the ground, a few trees having split asunder from intense heat. In the centre of the grove, the earth had been churned up, almost as if by a stampeding herd of cattle. A single, large stone sat at the heart of the clearing, three long, straight gashes running across its surface. Algir walked up to the stone, slotting a finger inside one of the gargantuan scratches with ease. He turned to the Nightsabers with a questioning expression.

"What do you see here?"

"There must have been one hell of a fight." Otto observed. He pointed at a spot of ground where the turf had been torn away. "Look here, at this. Something hit the ground here, ripped the grass up from its roots."

"Yes, and look here." Algir pointed to a cast off branch, a massive chunk of wood that could have been a rafter in a barn. "This was torn from one of the trees over there." He pointed. "And thrown all the way over here. What does this tell you?"

"That it was fucking huge?" Colin replied.

"Yes, and?"

"That it wasn't alone." Ida suggested.

"Good!" Algir snapped his finger, pointing at the adept. "Whatever it was, it had company, and not the friendly kind you will find at the local brothels. Look at the claw marks in this stone, see how big they are? They have to be from the front set of claws. No beast has claws on their hind legs or feet that can gouge this deeply."

"All these scorch marks around, are we dealing with something that can breathe fire?" Frederick asked.

"It's possible." Algir shrugged. "But unlikely. While there are some creatures that breathe fire, and some even that spit an acidic venom that can burn like fire, they are rare, and oftentimes would have the sense to stay away from a castle full of Witchers. No, the burn marks are more likely from on of our own brothers, probably hunting the beast. Although that does bring up the question of why they haven't told anyone at the castle about it. Perhaps they are still in pursuit, in which case they will need our help. This is too big for one Witcher to handle alone."

"Master!" Hilda's shout caused all present to spin to look at the Skelliger, kneeling in the grass next to the edge of the clearing. The Masters, followed closely by the rest of the Nightsabers, hurried over to see what she had found.

A patch of inky black fluid coated the grass, sticky and smelling of foul metallic fumes. Algir dashed over, kneeling next to Hilda and reaching out to touch the tacky liquid. He rubbed it in his fingers, smelled it, and chanced a small taste on his tongue, spitting it back out immediately.

"Everyone keep back." He instructed firmly, reaching down to his belt for a small potion vial, taking a swig of the glowing yellow liquid within. "It's blood, highly toxic."

The Nightsabers backed off as Algir rose to his feet again, placing his hands on his hips ponderously.

"There's got to be more clues. Search around, see if you can find anything."

Splitting apart, the Nightsabers began combing the clearing. In the darkness, the only light being a couple of torches the Masters carried, the task was proving difficult, but Frederick soon found his eyes adjusting to the gloom. After an intense search, Cyrus stood up with a triumphant call.

"Over here!"

As the students dashed over, the young lad waved something over his head, a tuft of long, thick, black hair, fur of some creature. Algir raced towards the adept, grabbing his find and passing it through his fingers. With a cautious gesture, he raised the hair to his face, taking a long sniff, before pulling away from it with a distasteful expression.

"Ugh! The scent is still strong. It didn't leave this behind too long ago." He glanced about, glowing eyes staring off into the woods. "There are some broken branches and trampled leaves in that direction. It must have fled from whatever it was fighting that way. Quickly! Follow me."

The Master took off, darting into the woods with nimble legs, keeping a pace the adepts were hard pressed to match. Frederick found himself ducking and dodging to avoid low-hanging branches, struggling with clinging thorns and brambles, slipping on wet leaves and tripping in damp mud.

Algir moved quickly, keeping close to the ground, occasionally he would stop, kneeling next to a patch of still-damp blood here, another tuft of fur there. At one point he paused to examine a massive footprint in the mud, created by something large, clawed, and moving very fast.

When Algir suddenly came to a halt, it came as somewhat of a surprise to the other adepts, many of them bumping into one another as they stumbled to a complete stop. The Master raised his hand cautioningly, holding a finger to his lips as he took a careful step forward. Silence fell over all gathered. Frederick strained to see what had drawn the Master's attention and there, just ahead in the murk, he spied a dark shape. Algir moved forwards, motioning for Njall and Toril to bring the torches up.

The motionless lump lay on the ground, silent, foreboding. Covered in shaggy, thick fur, it was easily a big as three men combined. Two enormous antlers sprouted from its skull, a broad, heavy built head that had a well-defined snout, a gaping maw full of razor-sharp teeth, three eyes adorning its brow. The body was huge, muscled, and stank of raw animal heat. Claws tipped each of its limbs, long and wicked. Algir knelt next to it, somewhat carefully.

"Try not to get to close." He cautioned. "The blood is venomous, and the ground around here has become corrupted. Without the correct mutations in your bodies yet, even being near the beast would at least sicken you greatly, if not kill you outright."

The Master leaned close to the beast, examining it. He felt along its jawline, searching perhaps for a vein or artery to check for a pulse. He gently prodded the third, central eye of the creature, right in the centre of its forehead, smearing the gooey fluid that oozed from it between his fingertips. Moving on to the flank, he found a long gash in its side, clearly the work of a very sharp blade. Finally, he stood, sighing.

"What we have here, students, is a Fiend. Any of you know what that is?" He glanced at the blank faces. "Obviously not. A Fiend is a powerful, ugly, magical creature. All muscle, very little brain. A little like our good friend Njall, am I right?"

The Skelliger smiled broadly, his eyes glinting in the gloom. His teeth shone white as he chuckled.

"I may not have your wit, Algir, but I know enough not to go up against a Fiend like this unprepared, unlike some Masters I could mention."

Algir returned the grin, eyes flashing with a privately shared joke. Shrugging, he turned back to the beast.

"Fortunately, I do not have to be prepared in this case. Someone has already done our job for us. Look at the wound- straight, clean cut, deep. No claws or teeth did this, only a blade like we Witchers carry." He turned back to the students, his face grim. "The true threat of a Fiend is not its claws, nor its teeth, but rather this-" he pointed to its head. "The third eye. The Fiend has some magical properties, and an ability almost unique among monsters who possess such a simple brain. If the creature's prey looks directly into the third eye, they are mesmerised, locked in place and easy to kill. This can be quite unfortunate, as the eye only faces in the direction the beast is charging, so a victim of such hypnosis is almost inevitably gored or trampled by the Fiend. The beast has a high resilience to Signs of pretty much any kind, except for maybe a well prepared Yrden trap. So how do we kill it?" He paused, the silence rolling in around him like waves of the sea. "Quite simply, by being quick. Flank it, attack it from the sides or the back, although you must be wary because it can spin around very quickly. The Fiend is much faster than it looks. But, if you can keep wearing it down from the sides, if you can cause enough injury to make it stumble, a swift, strong jab to its vital organs can soon have it neutralised. Even so, be careful! The blood, as I said, is poisonous, as is the venom it secretes from its claws. Prepare for a brutal fight whenever you face such a beast."

Algir sidled past the students, walking over to stand next to Njall. As the hulking Skelliger leaned down to allow the shorter Master to whisper in his ear, the adepts strained to listen.

"You saw the size of that thing, right?" Algir asked. Njall nodded. "As I thought. A juvenile. You know what that means..."

"We need to split up." Njall said firmly. "You go back to the castle. Inform Grandmaster Treysse. If there is one family group, there may be more. He needs to know."

"Agreed. We need all able hands on this task, right away. The last thing we want is for Fiends to decide this is a good spawning ground to raise their young in."

With that quietly reached decision, Algir took off, vanishing into the woods swift and silent as a shadow. Njall, meanwhile, turned back to his students.

"So the hunt has become more complicated than we at first thought. This one-" He pointed to the Fiend corpse. "Was just a child, like you. It's mother and father will still be out there, and now they will be angry. We need to split up, find both of the beasts, and take them down before they rampage through a village and slaughter any innocents. Master Toril will lead one group, I the other. Once the hunt is done, Toril and I have arranged a meeting spot deeper in the woods, a place where we can rest for the night. Be safe out there, remember that you are my students, and therefore you are strong enough to face anything, as long as you work as a team. Nobody gets left behind. Understood?"

"Yes, Master!" The Nightsabers chorused, their shout dancing through the trees. Njall nodded, satisfied.

"Good. Now, into your groups, and let's go kill us some monsters!"


	21. Chapter 21- The Mutants

Frederick found himself sorted into Master Toril's group, the young adept given the task of holding the torch close by while the Witcher led her half dozen followers. Even with the blazing torch in his hand, the former mage's apprentice was hard pressed to discern anything in the darkness of the forest. He squinted his eyes, but found it impossible to move with the certainty that Toril was capable of. As the Witcher raised a hand, guiding the young man around a deep rabbit hole that he had failed to spot, Frederick felt a compulsion to speak up.

"I can't see a blasted thing! How can you navigate in such gloom?"

Toril paused, turning to the adept. A small smile brushed across her features.

"Of course, I forget that you fresh-bloods don't have the same advantages that we do."

She leaned close to the adept, close enough that he could smell the scent of crushed leaves and damp mud on her cloak. Her eyes hovered a few scarce inches from his own, their glowing yellow light bright in the dark hollow of their sockets. As her gaze locked with his, he noted the long, vertical black slots of her pupils. The opening narrowed, then widened, then narrowed again. Frederick's own eyes widened in response as he realised these inhuman orbs were changing on command, not in response to the flickering of the torch. The smirk on Toril's features grew a little deeper as she moved away, clearly enjoying the adept's uncertainty and surprise at her inhuman attributes.

"Most, but not all, Witchers are granted extraordinary vision as an after-effect of the Trial of Grasses. It allows us to control our vision at will, within reason. We cannot see in pitch black conditions, at least not without the aid of a Cat potion, but we can see with great accuracy in lower light, pick out even minute details long after the sun has set. An overcast sky at night is to us as a blazing torch." She glanced back over her shoulder, yellow eyes flashing again. "Survive the Trial, adept, and you too shall have-"

The Witcher froze, a hand darting out in a firm, commanding gesture, bringing the adepts to a halt. As Frederick paused, shifting his grip on the torch in readiness, Hilda, Darren, Morold, Merinea and Krenai all gathered around him, watching Toril anxiously. Slowly, as though she feared that the motion would make too much noise, she lifted a hand to point off into the trees ahead.

A small, flickering light could be seen, a warm orange glow like a fallen star in the midst of the woods. A shadow shifted next to it, humanoid. As the adepts watched breathlessly, two more joined it, standing around what must have been a campfire.

Suddenly, a blood-curdling shriek tore through the night, a chilling, primal howl. One of the figures at the fire stiffened, head thrown back as their lungs let loose with all of their might. They collapsed to the ground, the other two figures decending upon them in an instant. Toril glanced to her students for but a moment, a decision made in an instant.

"Move up. Quickly!"

The adepts rushed through the trees, keeping low as they darted towards the fire, Frederick in their midst, keeping the torch aloft while trying not to set the woods alight. They charged out into the small clearing with the fire at its heart.

Frederick stumbled to a halt as his eyes adjusted to the bright light cast by the fire, taking in the sight of the... creatures around it. 'Creatures' was the only word he could use, for they had long since ceased to be anything resembling Human. Their bodies were misshapen, limbs elongated, fingers twisted and stretched like vicious claws. Rib cages buckled and bent under contorted muscles. Their faces were disfigured, monstrous. Eyes burned with a reddish-yellow glow, teeth like hooked fangs jutted out past torn, bloody lips. Layers of skin sloughed off in ragged sheets, almost as if melting away under intense heat.

The creatures spun at the arrival of the adepts, reaching for their belts and drawing blades, moving to stand defensively over their fallen comrade, writhing in the mud as he groaned in agony. As they brought their weapons to bear, Frederick realised he recognised them. The blades bore the same hilt as the ones from the castle armoury, clearly forged by the same blacksmith. As he took in this detail, a glimmer of silver around the neck of one of the creatures drew his eye, a dancing, flickering flash of metal. The adept shifted his grip on the torch, and the item came into focus. Frederick's breath caught in his throats as he realised what he was looking at- a medallion depicting a snarling, feral cat. The insignia of the School of the Cat. A Witcher's trinket.

"Assassins!" One of them snarled, his voice little more than a wild growl. "Killers sent to eliminate us!"

"Wait!" Darren stepped out from the group, hand raised in a placating gesture. "Hold on! We're not here to fight you!"

"Lies!" The taller of the two shouted, his eyes wild. "Lies from the monsters of Kaer Marter! You were sent here to kill us! Who sent you? Was it Meinard, trying to clean up his mess? Or was it Treysse, trying to atone for the sins he permits under his roof?"

"Neither!" Hilda stepped forward. "We have no wish to kill you!" With slow, careful movements, the Skelliger lowered her weapon, laying it on the ground. "Just slow down, and maybe we can help you."

"No, Nononono..." The tall one, presumably the leader of the troupe, began to pace back and forth. "No... you LIE!"

The shout bounces between the trees, disturbing a roosting bird somewhere nearby. The monstrous creature raises his sword.

"We're telling the truth!" Hilda insists. "We want to help. Tell me, who are you?"

The tall creature, the leader of the not-Witchers, began to pace back and forth, clutching at his head.

"He- he promised us- he said we would grow stronger, that we would-" He groaned, clutching at his side. "That his potions could help us to survive, to improve our chances. He- he.."

A scream fought to escape from his throat, caught behind a cage of clenched teeth. He doubled over, arms wrapped around his stomach. He retched, struggling to keep something down. Mouthfuls of wet matter hit the ground with a loud smack, gobbets of lumpy phlegm that glistened in the faint torchlight. He straightened, his eyes blazing with fury.

"He lied to us!" He screamed. "He tore us open, ripped us apart, and for what?! To become monsters, to die and be reborn and die again, ripped apart in agony. His words are venom! Lies to corrupt us all!"

"Who are you talking about?" Darren asked. "Who lied to you?"

"Meinard!" The single word was almost a roar, the creature's voice creaking as he lowered his fists to his sides. "The bastard killed us all, and made our bodies into these... things!"

He spun to face Hilda, arm outstretched to point a threatening finger. The Witcher adepts tensed, suspecting an attack, some gripping their weapons more tightly. Frederick shifted his grip on his own blade.

"He made us into beasts for his own sick amusement!" He growled. "Nothing but blood and fire and madness, scraping at the insides of our minds."

"Alright, just keep calm." Darren held out his hand in a warning gesture, his other rising to point towards his fellow Nightsabers. "We all just need to stay calm." His hand moved to point to his chest. "We want to help you. Tell us what we can do to help."

"You want to help?" The tall one wheezed. Slowly, he resumed his pacing. "Fine. You can help. Bring us Meinard."

"What?" Darren asked, taking a step back as the not-Witcher stalked past him, glaring at him before turning his gaze to Hilda.

"You heard me." The creature growled. "Bring us Meinard. The Monster of Mettina must answer for his crimes. Bring him to us."

"I don't think that would be a-" Hilda began.

"BRING HIM TO US, NOW!" The not-Witcher lunged forward, hands darting out to grab Hilda by the shoulders. His face hovered inches from hers. Frederick stepped up next to the Skelliger, his sword's point coming up to aim at the creature's heart. The monster, all too aware of the weapons turning to point at him, hissed threateningly.

"Bring him to us, or we will come to the castle and take him by force. Maybe he can put us back to the way we were, or maybe not. Either way, we will find absolution, and revenge." He shoved at Hilda, sending the Skelliger stumbling backwards a few steps. His finger jabbed the air again, underlining his words. "Do not return here without him."

"What about your friend?" Morold asked, pointing to the man writhing on the ground.

"We will tend to him." The tall creature nodded to his still standing comrade, the pair kneeling next to their stricken friend. "Leave us, now."

The adepts hesitated, just a moment, before Toril, who had been silent up until this point, standing at the back of the group, cleared her throat.

"Come on, students. We should not linger."

The Master turned, leading the way away from the campfire. Frederick, sparing a glance over his shoulder, hurried to keep pace with the Witcher. He turned to face forwards again as Toril spoke out.

"You spared them. I hope you will not regret that in the coming days."

"You disagree with our choice?" Frederick asked. "Why didn't you interfere?"

"This hunt is meant to test you, all of you." Toril answered. "Just because we did not plan for this encounter does not mean it cannot be used to measure your worth." She carefully stepped around a fallen log. "You have made your decision. My thoughts on the matter do not factor into it. Just... be prepared to live with your decision. You have let some dangerous monsters run free in these woods."

"Not monsters." Frederick interjected. "They were Witchers. Just because Meinard experimented on them doesn't change that."

Toril silently shook her head, a wry grin on her lips.

"You have much to learn, adept. I just hope your lack of knowledge doesn't cost you in the long run."


	22. Chapter 22- The Lake

The waters of the lake rippled gently as a cool breeze danced across its surface. As the adepts approached, the mud of the shoreline squelched loudly underfoot. Leading the group, Toril crouched next to the water's edge, fingertips touching its surface gently. She drew in a long, deep breath through her nose, pursing her lips as she released the air through her mouth. Her feral eyes darted from side to side, the midnight black pupils narrowing. Frederick stepped up next to her, dropping into a crouch.

"So... what are we doing here, and where are the Fiends?"

Toril spared the adept a sidelong glance, a smile on her lips as she chuckled.

"You still have a lot to learn, young one. Hunting monsters is about far more than just sticking your blade in the right place." Her eyes return to scanning the water's surface. "You have to prepare for the hunt appropriately, scout out the battlefield, find the right weapons."

"Is that what we're here for, a weapon?"

"Of a sort." The Witcher shrugs. "Something that will surely help us in our hunt, anyway."

She tilts he head in his direction, voice dropping to a whisper.

"Look to the heart of the lake, just under the surface, what do you see?"

Frederick squinted, eyes scanning the water's surface. For a long moment, all he could see was blackness, occasional flashes of reflected starlight and the undulating ripples of moving water. Then, finally, he spotted what the Witcher wanted him to find. Out in the centre of the lake, just below the surface, a faint blue-green shimmer, barely visible.

"There." He points. "Some kind of... plant?"

"Farrowvaene." Toril answered. "Peasants call it Ferryman's Bliss, a potent herb. Chew on the rootstock, and you'll be seeing all kinds of crazy stuff. It also serves as a kind of catnip for some monsters, especially Fiends. They go mad for it. We get one of the roots of that plant, we can burn it over an open flame, and we won't have to run down the Fiend. It will come to us."

"Sounds like a plan. So... how do we get it?" Fredrick nods a head towards the lake. "Any of your Witcher mutations good for walking on water?"

Toril smiles, a low chuckle escaping from her throat.

"We haven't figured out that mutation yet, unfortunately." She stood, walking along the edge of the lake. "The servants sometimes fish in this lake, pad out our food stores with carp, perch, a few trout. Their boat should be tucked away in the reeds somewhere around here..."

She waded into the nearest clump of reeds, shoving them aside to reveal a small, shallow-keeled boat, a pair of oars tucked away inside it. With a satisfied grunt, she pushed the boat out of the mud and into deeper water, guiding it away from the reeds. She glanced towards the rest of the adepts.

"This will only need two of you. The rest of us will wait here until you get back. Volunteers?"

Slowly, hesitantly, Merinea stepped forward. Krenai joined her, much more boldly, his back straight, his expression determined. Toril nodded approvingly.

"Good. Into the boat. We shouldn't tarry here too long. There's more than Fiends in these woods."

Frederick was the first to hear it. A faint rustling, barely louder than the shifting breeze. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. Slowly, deliberately, the adept turned around, looking for the source of the noise. He shifted his grip on the torch, casting its light a little further into the darkness surrounding the lake. Behind him, the oars clattered against the sides of the boat as the two adepts climbed in. Toril grunted as she pushed the small vessel, its keel scraping through the mud of the shallows.

"A little help?" The Witcher called out. Morold moved over to assist her.

The darkness of the forest yielded little to Frederick's narrowed eyes. The occasional shifting branch, a ripple of moving leaves, the groan of a settling tree. He was just about to turn back to the lake when something in the corner of his eye grabbed his attention, a shifting shadow that seemed out of place. He turned his head, but the moment passed, and whatever it was, it had gone. Curious, anxiety spiking in his heart. Behind him, Toril and Morold waded out into the shallows with the boat, suddenly grunting in frustration as the vessel came to a sharp halt.

"Damn." Toril muttered. "Water's not deep enough here. It's stuck!"

As the Witcher called Darren over to lend a third set of hands, Frederick took another step away from the lake, holding his torch aloft. Behind him, Hilda turned, taking note of the shift in his attention. She shuffled backwards a few steps, leaning towards her friend, a question on her lips.

"Frederick?"

Frederick squinted harder, swinging the torch around. Finally, he saw it. A flicker of reflected flames in glassy, wide eyes.

"Draw your blade." Frederick warned. "We're not alone."

The Skelliger's eyes widened, gleaming in the darkness as she slowly turned around. Her hand crept to the hilt of her sword as she moved her attention to the darkness, glancing in the direction that Frederick nodded. The pair watched as the barely visible eyes blinked, slowly, ponderously. A throaty, wet growl seeped out from the forest's edge.

The duo were so focused on the disturbance before them, they filtered out all other sounds and distractions, missing the cracking and clattering of shifting reeds beside them.

The creatures roared as they burst out of the reeds, lunging at the distracted adepts with arms outstretched, mouths agape. One barrelled into Frederick, throwing the adept back a few paces. Snarling in return, the former mage's Apprentice swung his torch, eliciting a howl of pain from the beast as it staggered back, arms waving at the flames ineffectually.

"Drowners! Everyone grab your weapons!" Toril yelled, ushering Morold and Darren away from the boat. She took a step back, pressing her palms together before her chest. She drew in a deep breath, pulled one of her hands back while tracing a symbol in the air, and then thrust it forward with a loud shout. "Aard!"

The boat surged forward on a gust of powerful wind, breaking free of whatever silty mud had grabbed hold of it. It bounced across the surface of the water, Merinea and Krenai struggling to keep their balance as rough waves broke around it. They wrestled the tiny vessel under control, putting their oars to the water. Merinea spared the adepts on the shore a backwards glance, and then the pair vanished into the murk.

Frederick stepped back from the beast that had attacked him, looking to his side as more of the creatures scuttled out of the woodlands, effectively surrounding the adepts. He brought his sword to bear, aware of Hilda drawing close to him on one side, then Darren and Morold on the other. Toril drew close behind the adepts, keeping an eye on the lake.

"Stick together, and don't let them bite you!" The Witcher commanded. "They feed on dead flesh, just one bite would be very bad for you."

Frederick regarded the beasts circling around him and his friends, trying to quell his revulsion at their twisted visage.

The beasts, identified by Toril as Drowners, looked like walking corpses, their skin pale blue, pulled taut across bloated muscles. Their faces were hideous, pale white eyes bulging out of deep, black eye sockets. They were completely hairless, and their hands and feet were webbed, claws tipping all of the digits. Gills pulsed on their necks, and fin-like growths sprouted from the back of their necks, their elbows, and their spines.

The second thing to strike the young adept was the smell. Putrid, rotting flesh, wet mud, decaying fruit, none of it matched up to the hideous stench that flowed off them. Frederick felt his stomach lurch as the full force of their odour hit him.

The monsters snarled, warily circling around to avoid the brandished blades of the Witchers. Pale blue lips curled back from jagged yellow teeth. Tongues, purple, bloated, sickly, poked out from behind those teeth. Their breath wheezed in and out of their throats, little more than gurgles, their sound like bubbles rising up through thick mud. One of them opened its mouth wide, jaw distended, as a terrible growl tore free of its chest. On this signal, the others darted forward.

Casting his torch to the ground, Frederick swung his sword at the first beast, a clumsy strike to the head that struck the Drowner with the flat of the blade more than the cutting edge. The creature staggered back a step, dazed, hesitation in the gurgles coming from its throat. Seeing an opening in that brief instant's confusion, Frederick struck again, this time scoring a hit along its belly, the tip of his sword tracing a line straight across. Blood, or something very like it, spurted from the wound. The Drowner howled in anger, swiping at him with an open palm, claws on the end of the long fingers slicing through the air viciously. Frederick parried desperately, catching the beast across the forearm, the impact sending shivers up through his shoulder.

At his side, the other Nightsabers fought the Drowners with ferocious determination. Hilda hacked fiercely at one Drowner, almost taking its head off in one strike, the second chopping an arm in half, the third piercing its rib cage, foul-smelling fluid seeping from the wounds. Darren had charged into a small cluster, his sword moving in broad strokes. Morold, meanwhile, kept moving, dropping into a crouch to strike from below, dancing around a charging beast to strike from behind. Even so, they were sloppy, uncoordinated. Each one moved as an individual, no unity between them.

"Push forwards!" Toril commanded, her voice firm as she kept close behind the students. "When you push them back with a strike, step forward and fill the gap! Don't give them a chance to regroup!"

Invigorated by the Witcher's words, Frederick lunged forward, driving the point of his blade through a Drowner's chest, the blade locking in its ribs. He staggered, struggling to pull the sword from the beast. With a mighty heave, he tugged the weapon loose. The Drowner fell to its knees, making one last effort to reach out for Frederick, clawing at the air. Finally, it sagged face-first into the mud, final breaths bubbling from its throats with a wet gurgle.

Almost before the adept could celebrate, another leapt up in its place, lunging at him. He took a step back, trying to dodge the monster's attack, but he suddenly found his foot stuck. He stumbled, falling backwards to land in the mud with a thick squelch. He looked down to see his foot trapped, the boot sunken deep into the mud.

Seeing the fallen adept, the Drowner leapt forward. Frederick reacted instinctively, raising the leg that was not trapped. He kicked out, catching the Drowner in the centre of its chest. The beast wheezed, but did not fall back, instead wrapping its hands around his ankle. He shook his leg, trying to dislodge it, but the beast would not let go. It drew his leg close, mouth opening wide, yellow teeth bared.

The pain of the Drowner's bite flared inside Frederick, a burning fire that consumed his leg. He clenched his teeth, trying to contain his voice, but the scream of agony slowly, painfully ripped it's way free of his throat. The Drowner's teeth ripped at his ankle, tearing skin and flesh as blood flowed from the wound in warm rivers. Frederick kicked at the monster again, but its grip was unbreakable, teeth locking together firmly.

Suddenly, the Drowner went stiff, freezing still. It let out a puzzled gasp, before a sudden tearing sound accompanied the tip of a blade bursting forth from its chest. The Drowner released its grip on Frederick's leg, looking down at the point of the sword. The tip of the weapon disappeared, and there was a swift slicing sound before the creature's head fell from its shoulders. The body slid to one side, revealing Master Toril standing behind it, weapon still in her hand. She stared down at the adept, wiping her blade on her sleeve.

"Always watch your footing!" She cautioned, looking around. The rest of the adepts were just finishing off the rest of the Drowners. "Cut the heads off the bodies, make sure they aren't going to wake up again!" She turned away from Frederick, sparing a dismissive gesture in his direction. "And someone get him back on his feet!"

Moments later, Frederick's view of the forest above was obstructed as Hilda leaned over, her features etched with concern.

"Frederick!" Her voice vibrated with anxiety. She turned to someone just outside of his line of vision. "Quick! Help me get him up!"

Darren soon joined her, the two of them grabbing a shoulder each. They pulled him up into a sitting position. Hilda leaned in, carefully watching Frederick's gaze.

"Are you well, Frederick? Did it bite you at all?" She asked.

"It-" Frederick began to answer, but something stopped him. "Not, it didn't. I'm fine. Just a few scratches, and I think I twisted the ankle a bit. I just need a bandage, something to tie it in place so I can walk on it."

The Skelliger looked at him curiously, but said nothing, handing him a bandage. In moments, he'd roughly bound his ankle, stopping most of the bleeding and supporting his damaged joint just enough to take his weight. With the help of his friends, he slowly climbed to his feet, wincing as a flash of pain ran through his wounds, racing up the length of his body. He took a few tentative steps, and, finding a piece of broken tree branch sticking out of the mud of the lakeside to support himself, he limped over to the water's edge, where Toril stood watching the waters carefully.

"What now, Master?" Frederick asked.

"Now?" Toril kept her eyes on the water, presumably seeing far more than the adepts could. "Now, we wait for the others to return."

The lakeside fell silent, the lapping of water on the shoreline the only sound to be heard. Then, out of the darkness above the water, a shrill shriek echoed forth.

~o~0~o~

Ten impossibly long minutes later, the rowboat pulled out of the shadows, listing unevenly to the side. As it drew up to the shoreline, Frederick noted a bloody smear running down one side of the hull. Krenai, still rowing, had his sword balanced across his lap. Merinea, her hair dishevelled, dark smears on her face, held a glowing strand in her hands, the rootstock of the Farrowvaene. The boat slowly ground to a halt in the mud, allowing its passengers to stand. As they did so, Krenai picked something up and threw it onto the shore. The large, round object bounced a couple of times, then rolled to a halt at Toril's feet. As the other Nightsabers brought their torches in closer, they saw the head of a Drowner, eyes glassy, neck stump still leaking blood. Toril inspected the trophy approvingly.

"Good. We have the Farrowvaene, and now you have all tasted blood in combat. We are ready for the next step of our hunt." She turned on her heel, marching away from the lake. "Come, students! We have a Fiend to catch!"


	23. Chapter 23- The Fiend

Master Toril kneeled before the small fire she had set in the clearing, adding fuel until a merry flame burned before her, casting uncertain shadows across the tree trunks around her. The adepts watched carefully as the Witcher hunched over the flames, pulling a few herbs from pouches on her belts. She sprinkled them into the flames, wisps of sweet-smelling smoke drifting up into the night air. She took the Farrowvaene root in her hands, pausing as she turned to face the adepts.

"When I cast this root into the fire, any Fiends in the area will be drawn to us, and we won't have a lot of time. You remember what Algir told you about facing Fiends, right?"

"Stay out of their way." Darren answered.

"Signs won't work on them." Merinea added.

"And don't look in their third eye." Hilda finished.

"Good, you were listening." Toril stroked her chin thoughtfully. "The eye is what I am most worried about. You haven't got the experience to try and resist a controlling influence such as this. It will likely consume your minds, perhaps even break them. I will have to hold its attention, keep it from focusing on you."

"What do you suggest?" Morold asked cautiously.

"I'll be the bait in this trap." The Witcher answered. "I will wait by the fire, prey for it to focus on as it approaches. I'll let it try and use its power on me. My resistance should be enough to hold its gaze long enough for you all to encircle it and strike from the sides and from behind." Her eyes flickered in the darkness. "Don't hesitate, though. Even I will not be able to resist its will for long. Strike hard, strike fast, and if it manages to subvert my will before you kill it, do not hesitate to stop me. But try not to kill me. I rather like breathing."

The adepts nodded silently, solemnly. Frederick felt a knot in his stomach. He realised what the Witcher was proposing, what that loss of control would feel like. He thought back to the library, the book, the spell... he shivered, trying to get a grip on himself. Inwardly, he swore that this would not happen to the Witcher before him.

Toril watched the reactions of each adept, noting the anxiety in their faces. She did nothing to ease that worry. It was not the time. Now was a time to be concerned, to allow that worry to sharpen the mind, force it to focus. She turned back to the fire, stirring the embers with the tip of a dagger.

"Take up positions in the woods around here. Lay a trap for the beast. Make sure you are not spotted." She drew in a deep breath. "The Drowners' blood on your clothes should mask your scent. Fiends don't care about them, they don't make for a good meal. They'll ignore you and come straight for the fire, and the Farrowvaene. And me."

With that, she grabbed hold of the root with both hands, grinding it between her fingers. She sprinkled the root over the fire, ignoring the spitting flames as flashes of white, yellow and green leapt upwards into the night sky. Soon a spicy, pungent smell filled the air, a heady aroma that filled the nostrils of the adepts. Frederick shook his head as the scent made his vision blur, dizziness clouding his mind.

As the smell dispersed, swept up on the gentle breeze of the night, the adepts moved to the tree line, soon finding a variety of niches, crannies and hiding spots to tuck themselves away in. Frederick found a gap between two trees, barely wide enough for a man to pass through, some thick brambles sprouting between them to provide him with cover. He knelt in the dirt, keeping his body as low as possible. To his left, he could see Morold, his cloak almost completely hiding him as he crouched in the shadow of a fallen log. Across the clearing, Darren's eyes could be seen, sparkling in the light of the fire. In his hand, his bared steel glowed, an orange line of reflected flames. Silently, the adepts waited.

~o~0~o~

Frederick's leg was cramping.

The adepts had been waiting for what seemed like an eternity, silent, unmoving, terrified of what any sudden disturbance might summon from the shadows. Sitting at the fire, Toril looked like a statue, carved from the same wood that formed the bodies of the trees around her. Her eyes were closed, but Frederick held no illusion that she was asleep, the aura of predatory awareness around her still powerful, even without her yellow eyes surveying her surroundings. Across her folded legs, a bared sword sat, ready to be used at a moment's notice. The fire, meanwhile, had dimmed a little, but still burned with fierce heat.

Frederick suppressed a grunt of discomfort as his leg twinged again, begging to straighten out, for the adept to take a few steps to get the blood flowing properly once more. The adept stoically ignored it, instead adjusting the binding on his other ankle. The skin was itching, the open wound burning with unusual heat. Wet warmth seeped through the bandage, drawing heat out of his body as it dribbled down over his torn boot. He dreaded what the ankle might look like now.

Just as the cramping in Frederick's muscles reached an all new high that he thought he could no longer bear, a deep, loud growl echoed through the trees. The adept froze, gaze darting about to find the source of the noise. He saw Darren, across the way, similarly looking about. Toril did not move.

The growl echoed forth again, and this time Frederick saw it. A massive shadow lurched out into the clearing, between himself and Darren. The creature was huge, three times the size of the body they had discovered earlier that day. It was at least nine feet in height, and just as broad. The front limbs, for they could barely be called legs, were immensely thick, like moving tree trunks as long as a man. Powerful muscles curled around them, bending and rippling with every movement. At the end of these limbs waited something like hands, but also like feet. Long, clawed digits scraped at the earth. The back limbs, while shorter, matched the forelimbs perfectly.

The Fiend paused, lifting its head to sniff at the air. Masses of thick, matted black fur cascaded over its shoulders, down its back and along its four limbs. A long, whip-like tail snapped back and forth powerfully.

Frederick found himself transfixed as he regarded the beast's head. The antlers were immense, wide, like the branches of a tree. The head itself, triangular in shape, held a massive, broad snout, inside which wickedly sharp teeth and a long tongue lurked. The ears, pointed, swept back alongside the skull, while the eyes on either side of its head burned with feral heat, a faint yellow glow at their heart. But most striking of all, drawing the attention of everyone there, was the third eye, right in the centre of its forehead. Frederick had seen a Fiend's secret weapon before, on the corpse of the juvenile near the castle, but this one was different. It was larger, for a start, but there was also a living intelligence behind it. While the other eyes glowed with vital energy, this one burned brightly with a far more primal power, an intensity the young mage's apprentice had never seen. As its stare swept the clearing, dread and fear followed in its wake. There was a power there Frederick couldn't begin to understand, let alone harness.

The Fiend turned its gaze to the fire, and the Witcher waiting for it there. It chuffed curiously, stalking a little closer. As it did so, Toril opened her eyes. As the beast's third eye fell upon her, the Witcher stiffened, her spine going straight as an arrow as she drew in a deep breath. Frederick couldn't feel what she was experiencing, but he almost sensed the ice-cold blade of control piercing her mind, wrestling to take over. The Fiend drew closer, teeth bared, a snarl on its lips.

"NOW!"

Hilda's cry pierced the air as the Skelliger leapt up, sword in hand, fire in her eyes. She charged, Darren and Merinea following her. On the opposite side of the clearing, Frederick, Morold and Krenai also leapt to their feet, racing to meet the beast. The Nightsabers yelled as they ran, rushing the beast before it could respond.

Frederick lashed out with his sword, the blade bouncing back off the thick skin without leaving a mark. Not even pausing, he slashed again, the tip of the blade scoring across its ribs, but still not piercing the tough hide.

The Fiend roared in anger, head swaying from side to side as the two-pronged attack confused it. Howling in anger, it spun, antlers sweeping out in a deadly arc that forced the adepts back. The tail whickered through the air, snapping loudly as it lashed dangerously close to Frederick's face. Frederick raised is blade in defence, but the tail struck him across the forearm, sending waves of pain up his arm and into his shoulder. He stumbled back, weak ankle barely supporting him.

The other Nightsabers rushed in, Hilda hacking at the beast fiercely, her blows powerful enough to get through the tough hide and summon forth powerful spurts of black, foul-smelling blood. Darren struck low, going for the muscles of the legs in an attempt to cripple it. Morold and Krenai had moved together, their two blades moving in harmony to worry at the monster's flank. Merinea, staying back a little, would,dart in swiftly. Try and land a few fierce hits with her blade, then dart back.

Frederick struggled to regain his balance, staggering forward on his injured ankle. He lashed out with the sword, tip finally piercing the hide of the beast just behind its front leg, where the skin was a little thinner. The Fiend roared in pain, anger, outrage, turning one of its eyes on the adept. It spun with unnatural speed, claws outstretched. Before Frederick could even respond, it made contact, striking him powerfully across the face. He lost his grip on his sword, the weapon clattering to the ground, and he was airborne, tumbling head over heels. He hit a tree, spine rattling as his skull hit the hard wood with a painful crack. Stars spun in his vision, blackness rising to engulf him as he sagged to the forest floor. Half of his face burned with raw fire, torrents of blood flowing from ragged openings to stain his shirt. His blood burned with raw fire, something new coursing through his veins to send shivers of pure torment through his body. It was all the adept could do not to scream, the pressure of containing his cries almost making him pass out.

Groggily, trying to quell the nausea that rose in his throat, Frederick staggered to his feet, his bad ankle almost giving out under him. Weaponless, dazed, he stumbled, taking a few wobbling steps towards the Fiend and his friends. His foot tangled in a root, and he fell forwards into the dirt, catching himself on his hands and knees.

Looking up, the former mage's apprentice saw his friends fighting the Fiend. Hilda barked out a few instructions to those closest to her, easily taking charge of the situation, but the other Nightsabers were not used to working together, their coordination clumsy, unfocused. Even so, numerous cuts covered the Fiend's skin, blood dripping from wounds to spatter across the soil. He glanced over to Toril, spotting the Witcher hunched over, clutching at her head with her hand, the other tracing symbols in the dirt before her. Her teeth clenched as she squeezed her eyes shut, fighting some inner battle that she was slowly, surely, losing herself to.

New determination filled Frederick as he climbed to his feet again. Raw, untamed survival instinct filled his limbs as he used the back of his hand to wipe away the blood, his blood, that flowed into his mouth and eyes. He looked at his hand, now coated in thick, sticky red, and drew in a deep breath, taking a few, painful steps towards the Fiend.

"Hey!"

His yell, although painful due to the open wounds on his face, was still powerful, cutting through the air. It grabbed the attention of the Fiend, the monster turning to face him even as the other Nightsabers kept attacking. It's eyes narrowed, the central third eye fixing on him, and in that moment Frederick knew it could see him, but it could also see something more. He felt a wave of thought brush with his own, then recoil in surprise, like eyes squinting when observing a bright light. For a moment, he felt just like he had back in the library, when whatever had inhabited that tome first became aware of him. The Fiend, like the spell, saw something in him, something it could not ignore. The beast roared, a challenge, as though facing off against a threat to its territory.

Frederick took another step forward, but then a shape barrelled into him. A tall figure, maybe Darren or Morold, had stumbled into him, unseeing, before dancing back to the side to try and worry at the Fiend some more. The former mage's Apprentice, already weak on his feet due to his injuries, fell backwards, landing on his back with a painful jolt that sent the wind from his lungs.

The Fiend, seeing an opening, charged straight at Frederick, defenceless, vulnerable. It's feet churned the dirt, sure to trample the adept into the mud.

Frederick, seeing death in the stare of that baleful third eye, scrabbled in the dirt, fingers clawing for purchase. His mind whirled, trying to figure out if he could roll out of the way in time, but his movements were slow, his muscles weak. The pounding of the Fiend's feet shook through the earth, shivering up his spine. Then, in the final moment, his fingers curled around something cold. He glanced over to see the hilt of his dropped sword, the blade still shining bright in the night. With a final, desperate effort, he grabbed the blade, bringing it to bear on the creature. The point gleamed in the night, almost as if coated in an otherworldly glow.

The sword made contact with the Fiend's breast, the momentum of the monster driving it through the thick hide. The Fiend howled as Frederick's weapon ripped through it, wedging between two ribs as the point went so deep as to sprout from its back. The Beast staggered back, stunned by the pain.

Blood cascaded down on the fallen adept, burning as it splashed on exposed skin. Thick, metallic-tasting fluid coated his tongue as the beast's vital fluids seeped into his open wounds, setting a new fire ablaze in his blood. Frederick tried to yell out his agony, but a tide of blood flowed down his throat, choking him.

Overhead, he was dimly aware of the Fiend still roaring as it staggered to the side, the Nightsabers still hacking at it. The beast dropped to its knees, still shaking its head defiantly. With a yell, Darren rushed forward to slash at its throat, Hilda leaping atop its back to drive her sword home through its spine. With a final shudder, the Fiend fell to the dirt, a last wheeze escaping its chest as its head sagged, its terrible eyes slowly closing. The five standing Nightsabers circled the beast carefully, just in case it showed any final signs of life, eventually satisfied it would not rise again.

Frederick writhed on the ground, his every muscle ablaze, his blood boiling, his mind in ruins. A low, pained groan escaped his throat, his fists clenching tight as he curled around his stomach, which threatened to turn against him.

"Frederick!" Hilda was there again, Merinea at her side. The two adepts knelt next to their fallen comrade, worry etching their brows. "Oh Freya help us..."

"What happened?" Toril, still clutching at her head, staggered over, eyes creased in pain.

"It's Frederick, he's hurt!" The Skelliger sounded almost frantic. "Fuck, look at all this blood..."

"Keep calm, find out what is wrong." The Witcher instructs her firmly. "Did the Fiend's claws get him?"

"I don't know..." Hilda turned to Merinea, who could only shrug. "Maybe?"

"Then you have to use a Swallow potion." The Witcher Master nodded to the prone adept. "Quickly! You don't have a lot of time."

Hilda nodded, producing a vial from her pouch, popping the cork quickly. Merinea lifted Frederick's head, supporting his shoulders on her knees as she tipped his head back to open his throat. Then, the Skelliger quickly poured the potion into his mouth.

The taste of the potion was indescribable, hideous on a level Fredrick could not have imagined. Lumps of something bobbed in the thick, noxious fluid. As it touched his tongue, it burned with a fierce fire, seeping into every taste bud so his entire mouth was filled with the flavour. It moved down his throat almost of its own will, in spite of every muscle in his neck trying to reject it. It swiftly invaded his gullet, pushing its way down to his belly.

The moment the potion hit his gut, Frederick's entire body rebelled against him, thrashing about wildly, pain and fire filling every corner of his being. The pain that had invaded him beforehand faded in comparison to this new sensation. He tried to scream, but a mixture of bile, vomit and blood clogged his airways, fighting to escape.

"Oh gods, it's killing him!" Merinea exclaimed.

"It will either kill him or heal him." Toril said off-handedly. "Either way, he doesn't have much choice."

He rolled over, trying to retch up the foul mixture, but nothing came out of his mouth. He heaved again, but nothing moved, a third time, and still nothing. Black spots hovered before his vision as he heaved a final time, this time only able to summon up a small mouthful of spittle tainted with blood. His body exhausted, he sagged back, rolling onto his spine to stare up at his fellow Nightsabers. A laboured groan escaped from his lips, and darkness began to overcome him.

"You and you, carry him." Toril instructed the other Nightsabers. Whom she had chosen, Frederick couldn't see. "We have to meet up with Njall and the others."

As the last few embers of consciousness seeped from Frederick's mind, two strong arms picked him up, slinging him between their shoulders, carrying him away. Just as wakefulness left him, the last thing he saw was the corpse of the Fiend, Toril leaning over it with her knife drawn.


	24. Chapter 24- The Oath

An immense fire roared in the midst of the camp, flames jumping easily as tall as the man who had set them, Master Njall. The Skelliger stalked around the flames, prodding at them with a long branch, ignoring the jagged cut that ran across his forehead, still leaking a little blood onto his cheek, which he remained oblivious to. The rest of the Nightsabers sat in a circle around the flames, Ragodar, Ida, Cyrus, Colin, Otto and Fordalt, watching the blaze pensively. Each bore the marks of a fierce battle, bruises, cuts, the haunted look in their eyes of those who had witnessed death up close. The same look mirrored in the faces of Toril's group as they marched into the camp.

Frederick remained balanced between Darren and Krenai, the two young adepts easily carrying his weight. His head bounced groggily from side to side, but the long walk through the cold, dark woods had brought some life back to him, the former mage's Apprentice slowly returning to wakefulness, although the pain that awaited him soon made him regret that. He shuddered as waves of agony flushed through his body, pulsing out from the red-hot kernel of torment that was his guts. He could feel the potion, still trapped in his belly, working its sinister purpose on his innards. As waves of agony flushed through him, he wondered not for the first time whether he wouldn't have been better off allowing the Fiend to finish him off.

Njall turned at the arrival of the last of his students, a flicker of concern darting across his features as he caught sight of Frederick's predicament.

"What happened?"

"Fiend." Toril answered sharply. "The young fool got in the way of its claws."

"And the beast?" Njall asked, kneeling to look at Frederick, tilting his head to inspect the wounds running across his face.

"Dead. I'm hurt you even had to ask." Toril smirked as she sat by the fire.

"Good." The Skelliger grunted. He stood, turning away from his student. "Get him some water. You've administered a Swallow, I take it?" The others nodded. "One of the weaker versions, right? He hasn't gone through the Trial of Grasses yet, a potion meant for a full Witcher could kill or cripple him." The other Nightsabers looked blank, Hilda and Darren glancing to one another with a little concern. Njall sighed. "We will just have to hope it was the right mixture, then. There's not much else we can do for him."

Ragodar hurried over, waterskin in hand. With Darren and Krenai's help, the Redanian poured a little water down Frederick's throat. The young adept gulped greedily, choking as he tried to swallow too much at once. The sudden jolt brought him back to full consciousness, the cool water soon giving his limbs strength. Head still reeling, Frederick freed himself of his friends' grasp, staggering to sit by the fire, waves of nausea gripping his stomach and throat. Still watching him carefully, his friends moved to join the gathering around the flames. Njall, still standing, moved to the far side of the fire, looking at each of his students in turn.

"You've all survived, more or less in one piece. Well done." He raised his hands, warming them over the flames. Dark shadows jumped across his face. "Fiends are fearsome creatures, but they fall just like any other mortal beast. Remember that, for you, too, are mortal. Your future hunts will not be as easy, and not all of you will survive. You need to look out for one another, protect your clan mates. That is why I have something planned for you. A ritual that will help protect you out on the trail. Stand up."

All the Nightsabers followed their Master's instruction, shuffling to their feet. Frederick's head spun from the effort, but he managed to remain upright.

"Now show me your right hand." Njall commanded.

The Witcher moved around the fire, pausing in front of each adept. A small bottle gleamed in his hand, black, foreboding, a wisp of grey vapour escaping from the open neck. As he paused in front of Frederick, he guided the adept to hold his hand out, palm upwards. He the poured out three drops of the liquid inside, a clear, ice-cold fluid. As it struck the adept's palm, a shiver ran through his body, like lightning in his bones. The skin where the liquid had fallen prickled, not unpleasantly, but there was a faint discomfort.

"The Elves call this the Tears of Brokilon." Njall explained as he walked around the fire, giving each of the students the same treatment. "Distilled from the rarest of herbs and fermented in the light of seven full moons. It is very potent, and very hard for a Human to come by, much less a Witcher."

He finally reaches the end of the circle, locking eyes with his last student, Hilda, for just a moment longer than the others.

"You must have faith in those by your side, and trust them completely with your lives. They are your shieldbrothers and shieldsisters. You are Nightsabers all, and these faces around this fire are your clan. Turn to face the student by your side."

The Nightsabers obeyed. Frederick found himself face to face with with Ragodar, the Redanian. The young lad locked gazes with him, his stare intense as his outstretched palm pointed towards the sky, the Tears still pooled in the cup of his hand. As all the Nightsabers found their opposite to face, Njall continued speaking.

"Now, unsheathe your weapon, and draw it across your hand."

The adepts all did so, without hesitation. Frederick winced as he sliced the skin of his palm, the heat of the blood a stark contrast to the chill of the Tears. The two mingled in his hand, the strange concoction it formed burning at the newly opened cut.

"Now, take your comrade's hand in yours, allow the Tears and blood to mix, then repeat after me- You are my kin, not by blood, but by deed, by honour, by spirit."

Frederick did so, reciting the Skelliger's words as a jolt of pain moved up his arm from his palm.

"From this day forth, we are bound by blood. Where you go, I will go. Where you stand, I shall be by your side, a shield against our foes."

Overhead, the forest trembled. Frederick felt a surge of something run through the air, an almost ethereal presence. Power coursed through the earth under his feet. Njall continued to recite the oath, his adepts following every word.

"I shall see what you see, hear what you hear, feel what you feel. And should you perish, so shall I."

A flare of concern rose in Frederick's stomach even as he spoke these last words, feeling the full effect of the oath come into being as the final word left his mouth. He glanced to Njall, watching his students like a hawk. The Skelliger nodded as each and every one completed the vow.

"Well done." He grunted approvingly. "You are bound to one another in blood now. This will serve to protect you in the trials to come. Stick by one another, no matter what happens, and never, ever betray your shieldkin."

The Nightsabers nodded silently, pondering what the oath truly meant. As they did so, a grin spread across their Master's face.

"But enough of such serious matters!" He chuckled, reaching down to his pack on the ground and producing a bottle from within. "You're all hunters now, let's celebrate like Skelligers!"

The Nightsabers laughed loudly as the bottle passed between them, each taking a hearty gulp. Frederick accepted the bottle from his new blood-brother, lifting the brew to his lips. The mead inside was strong, burning as it worked its way down his throat. One mouthful was enough to make his head spin, although whether it was just the strength of the alcohol, or the after effects of the potion, he couldn't tell. Shakily, he passed the bottle on, before a sharp spasm coursed through his body, forcing his knees to buckle. The darkness that he had fought to banish from his mind surged back, flooding every corner of his consciousness, and he fell to the ground, the concerned shouts of his fellow Nightsabers the last thing he heard.

~o~0~o~

When Frederick woke again, he found himself in a small, sparsely furnished room, on a very comfortable bed adorned with white linen. As he woke, a gasp of breath fought its way into his lungs, forcing the Witcher hopeful to cough, almost choking on the mouthful of phlegm and blood that coated his throat. At the noise of his returning consciousness, a face moved into view above him, a kind, gentle face surrounded by a cascade of dark brown hair. Dark eyes twinkled a little as a smile crossed her lips.

"You're awake. Good. I thought for a moment you might slip away in your sleep."

"I-" Frederick struggled to swallow, his dry tongue making any kind of speech difficult. The woman raised a small wooden cup to his lips, the water within soon chasing away the parched sensation. He nodded to her thankfully. "Who are you?"

"I am just a simple healer." She smiled again. "And I saved your life tonight, young Witcherling."

"You are not a Witcher?" Frederick asked.

"Do you see a medallion?" She raised an eyebrow inquisitively. "No, I am but a lowly herbalist. I merely answer Grandmaster Treyyse's call when Witcher medicine will not suffice."

"Thank you." Frederick grunted, trying to push himself up on his elbows, but the herbalist placed a hand on his chest, forcing him to remain still.

"Not yet. You might re-open the wounds, and I'm not finished stitching them shut." She sat next to the bed, the clatter of a wooden box being opened reaching Frederick's ears. She produced a large, wickedly sharp needle, her brows furrowing in concentration. "I've not seen wounds like this since the war. What kind of creature did this to you?"

"A Fiend." Frederick muttered, trying not to move his facial muscles as the woman set to work stitching his open cheek back together.

"Ah, yes. That would do it." She nodded sagely, before shaking her head. "You Witchers, always getting into trouble three times your size! It's a wonder any of you survive long enough to make it through those barbaric Trials." She performed another couple of stitches. "I'm curious, though. I don't see any sign of healing in the wound. Didn't you take a Swallow potion?"

"I think so." Frederick answered.

"You 'think so'? You mean you don't know?"

"Well, we had to steal them from the Alchemy lab, but we're sure they were Swallow potions."

"Ah, I see." The herbalist nodded again. "I thought I recognised the signs. You haven't been through the Trial of the Grasses yet, have you?" She noted his blank eyes. "You probably took a full strength potion, meant only for Witchers who have endured the Trial of Grasses. Those aren't meant for Humans. They're usually deadly. The Alchemy Masters here are supposed to mix them with Verbena extract and Rosehip to water down the strength of them before their power is activated, so that they are safe for you students to drink. Still deadly to the layman, but you've already been eating food treated with Witcher mutagens to get you ready for the Trials, so the potions won't be as harmful to you as they could be. Still, a full strength potion of any kind would cause some damage. Do you feel anything unusual?"

"I feel-" Frederick grunted as he tries to move. "The entire side of my face is on fire, as though the flesh underneath were being eaten away by red-hot embers."

"Hmm..." She placed a hand on his cheek, then on his forehead, her palm cool to the touch. "You don't feel feverish. Hang on..."

The wooden box rattled again, and she produced a small glass vial. She lifted up a piece of blood-stained linen, pouring some water through it so that the red liquid drains into the vial. Then, she added two black petals to the mixture, swirling it around, watching how the bloody water reacted. After a moment, she clicked her tongue.

"I think I see what has happened." She murmured. "The Fiend's venom is still in your blood. Your body should have purged it by now, or died trying. I'm guessing that the potion, whatever it was, has kept the venom in your body without allowing you to perish. A side effect of a non-Witcher drinking something meant only for a mutated body."

"What does that mean for me?" Frederick asked, uncertain he wanted to hear the answer.

"I don't know." The young woman answered. "Maybe the venom will pass out of you in a few days, and the pain will fade, or perhaps it will never leave. I cannot say." Her eyes glittered sorrowfully. "I'm sorry."

Frederick sighed, his muscles relaxing as the breath left his lungs.

"Not exactly much you can do about it. I can't exactly un-drink the potion. Let's just hope it passes in time." He frowned. "The thought of living with this pain for the long-term doesn't really appeal to me."

"I can't imagine it would." She replied, setting her tools aside. "The stitches are finished, and there's not a lot more I can do for you. Just take it easy, try not to tear the stitches, and give yourself plenty of time to rest and heal. You're not a Witcher yet, and you won't be back on your feet as quickly as they are, understand?"

Frederick nodded, staring at the ceiling as thoughts filled his mind. A wave of pain washed through his wounds, making him hiss through clenched teeth. The herbalist nodded in understanding, moving to leave.

"Wait." Frederick's voice made her pause in the doorway. "I don't even know your name."

"I never gave it." She smiled. "My name is Zula, Frederick of Asheberg. I pray you will never need to see me again."


	25. Chapter 25- Conflict

"You did WHAT?!"

Master Bastian's shouted question echoed across the training grounds before the castle, drawing the attention of every adept present. Sitting on the steps leading up to the castle, the Nightsabers looked around at his words, spotting the seasoned Cat Master pacing back and forth in a rage, Njall and Elinor before him. Bastian's face was contorted into a scowl of pure fury, his movements swift. His hands clenched into fists at his sides as he lowered his head, shaking it from side to side as if to clear some clouding confusion from his mind.

"Two weeks..." He growled, spinning on his heel to raise a hand, finger pointing in accusation at Elinor. "I was only gone for TWO WEEKS! That's how long it takes for you to get bored?"

Elinor scowled in return, her lips clamped shut as her eyes flared with indignation. Even from a distance, the Nightsabers could see that it was taking all of her self-control to hold herself back from responding. The knuckles of her right hand shone white as her fingers curled into her palm, fist shaking as the rest of her remained stock-still. Her silence seemed to only enrage Bastian further. He turned away from her, wheeling to face Njall.

"And YOU..." He stammered for a long, uneasy moment, at a loss for words. "You- you were supposed to be my friend!"

"That's why I thought you'd be okay with it." The Skelliger's expression was just a little perplexed. "I mean, better that it was me than having a stranger fuck your woman..."

"Th-that doesn't make it okay!" Bastian sputtered, his tone exasperated. "Not even close! How could y- why?!"

"It was a cold night." The Skelliger shrugged.

Bastian opened his mouth to reply, but no words came out, his jaw working silently as something in his brain ceased functioning. A quiet, anger-infused grumble escaped from his throat.

With a weary, frustrated sigh, Elinor turned, striding away from the pair. Bastian's eyes widened.

"Where are you going?" He yelled after her.

"Somewhere away from here." Was the red-haired Witcher's curt reply, cast back over her shoulder. "Until you've stopped being so ridiculous."

"Ridi- you-" Bastian seethed. Finally, a loud yell tore free of his throat, loud enough for all present to hear. "Well, this time try and keep them together for more than two weeks!"

Elinor paused mid-step to glance backwards, spotting Bastian gesturing at his own legs to underline his point. Her lip curled in anger, and she quickened her pace, marching away from the other Witchers and across the training fields towards the woods.

Bastian paused, face twisting with a mixture of emotions. Anger was still there, fighting for control amidst betrayal, and a little sorrow. For a moment regret, possibly at his words, flashed across his expression, but that too faded. Finally, with a defeated, angry sigh, he threw his hands up in the air.

"I need a fucking beer!" He glanced to Njall, an accusatory finger jabbed in the Skelliger's direction. "YOU owe me a beer." His hand moved to jab a thumb over his shoulder at the departing Elinor. "SHE owes me a beer." Then, a wild look in his eyes, he waved an expansive hand at the growing crowd of onlookers. "ALL you fuckers owe me a beer, and I'm collecting that debt tonight!"

With that bold statement, the Cat Master turned and stomped off, passing by the Nightsabers with a surly glint in his eyes. As he recognised Njall's students, his pace hitched for just a moment, presumably another wild demand for alcoholic recompense on the tip of his tongue, but instead he continued on until he vanished inside the castle. Behind him, Njall remained where he stood, sighing loudly as he looked up to the sky, as if imploring the gods above for strength.

"Well, that was dramatic!"

The Nightsabers turned at the new voice to see Master Dirk, perched atop one of the stone lions poised by either side of the steps. The Wolf School Master bore a somewhat amused grin. Beside him, Master Ruta stood, thumbs tucked into her belt as she watched the proceedings with similar amusement.

"In Kaer Tiele, we do things quite differently. Is this kind of bickering among the Masters a common thing in Kaer Marter?" He shook his head, chuckling. "No matter. We have other matters to attend to." He pointed a finger at the group, snapping his fingers together in the same gesture. His next words soon grabbed Frederick's attention. "Nightsabers, yes? Tell me, are you ready to learn all about Signs?"


	26. Chapter 26- The Medallion

The library of Kaer Marter was silent, a rare thing in the bustling castle. The creaking bookshelves groaned under the weight of countless tomes, immeasurable knowledge stored on their pages. Frederick found himself fascinated with the leather-bound volumes, taking note of some of their names. Bestiaries, herbology indices, collections of maps of the known world, and some of the unknown, the wealth of knowledge on display easily matched anything the young man had seen in his time in Master Travis' workshop. His first instinct was to reach out and open one of the aged books, but a clatter of noise from behind him reminded the Witcher adept that he was not alone, and he reluctantly turned away. Another time, he promised himself. Another time.

Dirk was sitting on one of the long tables in the centre of the library, legs swinging idly off the edge as the Nightsabers gathered around. Ruta walked up next to him, a small, iron-bound chest under her arm. With a grunt, the Witcheress dropped the chest on the table, nodding silently to her fellow Wolf. Dirk smiled, winking at her, then turning to his students.

"Now!" He clapped his hands together. "What do you know about Signs?"

He glanced from face to face, chuckling as his gaze was met only with blank stares, mildly puzzled expressions, and silence.

"Not a lot. I suspected as much." He shrugs, placing his hands palms-down on the table either side of himself. "The common folk don't understand a whole lot about our Signs. Sure, they know of them, but they don't understand them."

As he pauses, his gaze shifts down to one of his hands, the fingertips tracing some unintelligible symbols on the wood of the table.

"Witcher Signs are magic, but it is a different type to the kind you will see from Sorceresses and Magi. Far simpler, for one thing. While a Mage's spell may need complex reagents, weeks of preparation, hours of casting and enough power to split mountains and move oceans, a Witcher's Sign is far simpler, can be cast in seconds, and needs only a small hand gesture, a spoken command, and the right mindset."

With a sudden shift, the Witcher swivelled off the table, landing on his feet with a thump, pacing back and forth. As he does so, his hands begin to move, underlining his words.

"When we cast our Signs, we tap into primal forces, powers that come from the elemental realm. Fire, Water, Air and Earth. The power is there, in the land beneath our feet. It flows around us, like rivers and streams we cannot see. There are some places where the power is more concentrated, Places of Power where the elemental forces leech through into our world and it is far easier to tap into them."

He breathed deeply, closing his eyes for a moment. As he did so, Frederick felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, a shiver running through his skin. Something stirs in the air around him, an electric sensation that itched at the base of his spine. Then, Dirk opened his eyes, and the sensation passed.

"The first step towards harnessing the power needed to cast Signs is learning to control your mind. To do so, you must exhibit pure focus, master concentration, and learn to channel your emotions. There are a few ways to do this. Some use herbs, edible fungi and certain minerals to put themselves into a waking trance, stilling their mind through these substances. There are a few mental tricks, like humming a childhood tune, reciting a certain phrase, or counting numbers to try and focus their mind."

He reached up to his chest, taking hold of the wolf's head medallion that rested on a chain there. He regarded the tiny silver token, almost as if wishing to meet its gaze.

"By far the simplest method to gain control of your thoughts is meditation. With the proper techniques, you can attain to perfect clarity of thought, purity of emotion, and absolute control of self." He gestured to the floor of the library. "Go ahead and make yourselves comfortable. Sitting, kneeling, legs folded, doesn't matter. Just make sure you can be alert and focused."

Glancing to one another, the Nightsabers slowly dropped to the floor. Frederick suppressed a grunt as he crossed his legs, sitting with his hands resting loosely on his knees. Dirk nodded as he watched his students, waiting until they had all settled.

"Good." With a sigh, he sank down onto his knees. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes. "Now, close your eyes, and focus on your breathing. Draw in through your nose, and exhale through your mouth. Forget about every other part of your body, and just focus on your lungs, your chest, your throat. Fixate on how they move, what the air feels like inside them. Listen to the sound of your breathing, how inhaling is different to exhaling."

He paused, tilting his head as the Nightsabers, one by one, closed their eyes and followed his instructions. Frederick slowly closed his eyes, taking in a long, bracing breath. The cool air filled his lungs, stretching his ribs out. He held it for just a moment, then let it out in a quick rush. As he did so, images rose in his mind. Trees swaying in the breeze. A grassy meadow swaying as gusts of wind whispered across it. Ripples dancing across the surface of a pond. Serenity blossomed in his mind, filling every corner of his being. As he released yet another breath, it came out as more of a contented sigh.

"Try not to fall asleep!" Dirk's voice had a hint of a chuckle in it. "Pretty relaxing, huh? This is the first stage of meditating, clearing the mind. You are peace, stability, clarity. Now, hold onto that feeling, and let's find that source of power for you to tap into...

"Picture in your mind a forest, maybe the one around the castle here, perhaps some woods from your homeland, maybe even an enchanted copse from a fairytale you heard as a child. Doesn't matter, just picture it. Imagine the trees, towering overhead, their leaves spreading out above you, roots digging through the soil underfoot. Dead leaves litter the forest floor, crackling under you as you move. Imagine this forest is completely silent, not a whisper of wind to brush your skin or stir the leaves."

Frederick focused, soon finding his mind's eye wandering to the Dyfne Vale, a forest coating the hills close to his old home. He used to wander those wild paths as a child, before the war. As the imagery of the verdant forest filled his mind, a warm glow ignited in his heart, fondness for the memories. His ears twitched as Dirk continued speaking.

"Now, there's a stream in the heart of this forest. Deep in its heart, a long walk away. Walk towards it. Picture every step you take, the way the soil moves around your feet, the crackle of leaves beneath every step, how you move around the tree trunks to keep going. Travel along the unseen paths, deeper and deeper into the woods, until the leaves are thick above your head, the trees cluster together in crowds, and the air grows heavy with the green scents of nature. Find the stream, stand upon its banks."

Frederick did so, eventually standing on the stream's bank, gazing down at it, visualising the straits and curves of it, tracing the meandering path through the trees. The bubbling of the water filled his ears, while the light flickered off the surface, bouncing along every ripple and eddy. Under the surface, small pebbles coated the bed, settling in the silt, while a few weeds here and there danced in the current.

"You see it?" Dirk asked, not waiting for an answer. "Kneel next to it, reach out to it. Let your hand dip beneath the surface. Feel the cool water flow across your skin, how the current touches you. See how it responds to your touch, changes direction to flow around you. Stir the water back and forth, make some ripples. Scoop it up, feel it in your palm, then let it fall between your fingers. Know everything you possibly can about the water."

As Frederick did so, the water in his mind's eye represented down to the very last drop, he sensed something. A flicker of movement, in his mind. A subtle shift of the world. The hairs rose upon the nape of his neck, and an electric shiver coursed through his skin, as though someone stood right at his back, her breath slithering across his skin. The adept tensed, his breath catching in his throat. As he did so, Dirk spoke up, his voice seeming to come from all around the room, yet at the same time mere inches from Frederick's ears.

"The stream represents the magical power in the world, and what you are now feeling is the elements responding to you, feeding into you. At the same time, you are feeding into them, and you are part of the world, contributing to a cycle of endless energy."

Frederick thrilled at the sensation, stirring the water in his mind again, trembling as a bolt of energy, like lightning, surged through his soul. He was standing on the precipice of so much power, just outside of his grasp. He wanted to reach out for more...

"And relax!"

Dirk's words snapped the adepts out of their reverie, bringing Frederick crashing back down to mundanity. He opened his eyes with a gasp, sorrow rising in his soul as he felt the power retreating, as if it were being sealed behind a closing door. He glanced to Dirk, the Witcher's eyes glowing with an ethereal light. For a moment, he got the distinct impression that the intensity of the vision and power he had just experienced was in large part due to the experienced monster hunter sitting not two yards from him, somehow making the energies they had tapped into easier to discover.

"Most people think that a Witcher can only access magical energies with his medallion, or that only certain people like Sorceresses, Magi and Witchers can use magic. The truth is, we are all open to these powers, to some degree or another. Every living thing can access these energies, with time and practice. Granted, some are born with natural talents, just like some folks are born with a predisposition for violence or art or reading. All Witchers can channel magic, but you need to be focused, stable, at peace, to truly use it. Our emotions, our thoughts, our souls shape the power, and help us to achieve our intended results. Mastery of the self is needed to master magic of any form.

"Meditation takes exactly as long as you need it to. With practice, you can make your journey to the stream in the space of time it takes to blink. Other times, you may vanish into the forest for minutes, hours, days, seeking serenity. There have been some Witchers who spent weeks or even months walking the paths of that forest, deepening their connection to the elements and to the world around them. But for now, you know enough to access the most basic forms of magical energy."

Frederick listened to every word with rapt attention, soaking in every scrap of the Witcher's lesson. In the back of his mind, he could sense the electric presence lingering, albeit in a weaker form. He had been shown where the doorway to the power was, and he hungered to open it again. But that would have to happen later. For now, he had a lesson to focus on.

"There's a vital tool that all Witchers need in their travels." Dirk continued, rising to his feet. He turned back to the table, and the chest waiting there. With a single, smooth motion, he flipped the lid of the chest open, revealing inside the flash of glittering silver. "Their medallions."

Inside the chest, resting upon a bed of black velvet, an array of silver medallions rested, catching the light in an enticing glimmer. Twelve snarling cat's heads roared at the world, their emerald green eyes creased with bestial ferocity. The light cast through the library's windows bounced off them in strange and unusual patterns, given an almost living vibrancy. Dirk picked one up, twisting its chain around his fingers.

"The Witcher's medallion is as crucial a piece of our gear as the swords on our back, maybe even more so." He explained. "They are not magical in themselves, but they are sensitive to magical auras. They respond to the presence of monsters, curses and spells, vibrating in their presence. The bigger the threat to you, the more the medallions will move. They also serve as a focus for magical energies. You can focus through them to draw the magic into yourself, shape it with greater control and cast your Signs with even greater potency."

He turned the medallion over in his hand, inspecting every angle of it.

"But the medallion serves another, equally important purpose. When you wear this talisman, peasants will instantly know who you are, and that you speak for our guild. No matter the School you belong to, you will be marked as different, and treated as such. Some will silently hate you for your profession, others will fall at your feet, begging for aid, and still others will outright try to drive you from town, or even attack you out of fear. Whatever happens, you must not bring disgrace upon this medallion, and must always remember that you are the face of all Witchers for as long as you bear our sign."

The Nightsabers listened tensely, nervously. Frederick watched the medallion in the Witcher's fingers, eyes fixed upon it as he found himself unable to look away. He digested Dirk's words, realising what the lump of silver in his hands represented- commitment to a new life, forsaking the old one, agreeing to be different, an outcast, a freak. But still he couldn't look away, the silver calling to him.

Ruta and Dirk split the medallions between themselves, taking six each to give to the students. The Witchers moved among the Nightsabers, giving each of them a cat's head. Ruta moved up to stand before Frederick, holding out the last of her medallions. The young adept paused a moment, staring at the silver token. The snarling feline glared back at him, his own future locking stares with him, teeth bared, ready to pounce. He reached out, allowing the talisman to fall into his palm. As it touched the skin of his hand, a surge of energy raced up his arm, a shock of power that struck his brain like lightning. The medallion trembled violently in his hand, vibrating hard enough to make the chain jangle underneath. Ruta' brows rose upon seeing this.

"Well, it seems to respond to you." She smiled a small smile. "Seems like it was made for you. Look after it, adept, and don't let anyone take it away from you."

Frederick looked up, staring at the Witcheress' scarred visage, locking his eyes with hers as he nodded solemnly. As she walked away, he turned his attention back to the medallion, turning it over so the green eyes faced him, rage and untamed power in their stare. He stared at it for a long time, his mind clearing of all thoughts until the whole world became nothing but the adept and his medallion. As his focus narrowed to just the token, he heard his heartbeat surge in his ears, and the medallion pulsed in response, almost as if with a heartbeat of its own. Waves of revitalising energy washed out from the talisman, synchronising with the pulses of the young man's own body. Slowly, surely, his fingers curled around the token, pressing it into his palm until the sharp metal edges cut into his flesh. The medallion, on some inexplicable level, was a part of him now, as much a piece of him as his heart, or mind, or soul. A part of himself he hadn't known was missing had now been granted to him.

Finally, Dirk resumed his lesson, breaking the momentary silence. Looking up from his medallion, Frederick quickly looped the silver chain around his neck, the token coming to rest against his breast, the snarling cat's head hovering over his heart, roaring at the world almost protectively, defiantly.


	27. Chapter 27- Quen

"Keep up, students!"

Dirk had led the Nightsabers out of the castle, taking a barely-visible path through the surrounding woodlands. The adepts trailed out behind him, walking single file, Frederick in their midst. As Dirk spoke, the troupe plunged deeper into the forest, the trees crowding together oppressively overhead. Warm spots of sunlight filtered through the verdant canopy, dancing across the forest floor in erratic patterns. Occasionally, a bird would sing from the branches, a gentle melody that followed the Witchers-in-training. The air was still, peaceful.

Finally, after a long trek through the emerald treescape, the Witcher Master led his class to a small clearing. The moment Frederick stepped out from the bordering circle of trees, he was overwhelmed by a sudden surge of energy. His medallion thrummed against his chest, almost shaking itself free of its chain. Breathlessness grabbed hold of the young scholar, a momentary euphoria welling up in his mind. He reached out with a hand to steady himself against the nearest tree trunk, and as his palm came into contact with the rough bark, a secondary rush overcame him. He felt the power flow from the tree, rising from deep in the ground in emerald bolts of lightning, coursing along the tree's roots, through every twig, branch and bough, radiating out of every leaf. In that instant, Frederick was as aware of every part of the tree as he would have been about his own body. In a way, the two were one and the same. The scars on his face pulsed with unusual heat, as though the recent wounds were allowing some of the energy coursing through him to leech out into the surrounding air. He lifted his free hand to touch them, feeling the blood pounding just beneath the surface of the scar tissue.

As Frederick fought for balance in the almost violently potent atmosphere of the clearing, he glanced about to see his fellow Nightsabers all responding to the energy to varying degrees. Some swayed on their feet, dizziness afflicting them. Others barely paused for a blink between steps, almost entirely untouched by the power flowing around them. None seemed affected on quite the level that the former mage's apprentice seemed to respond to the aura, leading him to wonder about its nature.

After a few long moments, the unsettling high passed, his body acclimating to its surroundings. He could still feel the power, surrounding him, almost smothering him, but he was able to breathe without being overcome, finding stability and grasping hold of it tightly. Dirk, who had been watching all of the reactions of the Nightsabers unfold, finally spoke when he had their full attention once again.

"This is what we call a Place of Power." He explained, gesturing to the clearing around him. "The energies of the world are close to the surface here, trying to break through. I see you can all feel it. Be careful! It can have quite an intoxicating effect on the unprepared..."

Frederick drew in a deep breath, sensing the power beneath his feet. In that quiet moment, he felt at one with the energy, drawing it up through his feet. His bones tingled from the presence, a pleasant discomfort racing along his nerves. He felt as though, if he were to open his mouth, sparks would leap from his teeth. He quietened his racing pulse as Dirk spoke once more.

"Take a minute to fully explore what you are sensing. Walk those paths through the forest again, find that stream, drink deeply from it. Learn everything you can about how the power feels, how it responds to you. Remember that, even though we describe it like a stream or label it as a part of the world, magical energy is something living, with its own mind. Like a wild animal, it will respond to you differently depending on how you approach it. Mages grab hold of the power, break it like a wild horse, chain it to their will. Druids are more gentle, coaxing the power to serve their needs in the same way you use treats and bait to lure a creature to your side. Other magic users, like witches, forest healers, elves, and yes, Witchers, use magic in differing ways, and it responds to them all differently. Find your own way of communing with the power, and be consistent with it. The magic must learn to answer your call, just as you must learn to command it."

The Nightsabers nodded, closing their eyes as they turned their gazes inward. Frederick stilled his body, delving deep into the mental image of his forest, finding the brook at its heart, kneeling on its banks. This time, rather than reaching out to touch the waters, he paused, eyes staring down at its surface carefully. The water shone in the flickering light between the leaves overhead, dancing colours almost blinding the adept. Still he kept his eyes open, watching every wayward motion of the stream. Then, just as his patience began to wear thin, the water moved.

At first, it was a subtle thing, a ripple moving in the wrong direction. Then, a sudden splash as part of the water folded over on itself, the ghost of a shape in its movements. Small waves bubbled around something, not quite solid, but more permanent than the stream around it. A tenuous hillock of motionless water formed just under the surface, the rest of the stream flowing around and over it to create an unnatural bump in the water.

Curious, wary, the mental image of Frederick reached out with his hand, palm hovering mere inches above the water. The thing in the water responded to his palm's warmth, rising a little, sensing his presence, almost as if testing his scent warily. Then, with a rush, it pushed against his hand, pressing up to his skin curiously, still testing him. An electric thrill raced through the adept's mind. He opened his eyes, releasing the image in his mind. Swiftly, the young Witcher returned to the here and now, but somewhere, deep behind his eyes, something else watched carefully, curiously. A new companion slowly feeling out its way in his soul. Warmth flooded through Frederick's limbs. Back in the forest, Dirk nodded approvingly as he sensed more than saw each Nightsaber feel out and establish their link with the magical energy of the clearing.

"Good. Now, let's consider the Quen Sign..."

He moved to stand in the middle of the group, the Nightsabers shifting to form a circle around him. The Witcher Master began to move his hands before himself, palms hovering about an inch from one another as the fingers twisted in strange, circular motions. He focused on the space in between his hands, eyes narrowed as he spoke.

"Quen is the most basic of Witcher Signs. It is the Sign of Protection, a Sign that we cast to defend ourselves. Used properly, it can protect you from incoming blows, deflect arrows, even turn aside fire. But!" He raised an eyebrow as his voice rose. "There is an art to it. If you do not master the cast, the Sign is more or less worthless." His hands continued moving, drawing back from one another. In between them, a faintly glowing aura lurked, a golden spark in the air. He glanced up at his students, winking slyly. "Watch this..."

He spun, feet firmly striking the ground as he held his body straight. His fists clenched, outstretched arms moving swiftly through the air. He crossed his arms, forearms striking one another firmly as he shouted out a loud, single-word command.

"QUEN!"

The word, however short, was powerful, the full force of the Witcher's authority put behind it. The trees trembled, leaves quivered and the earth shook beneath his feet in response to his shout. As his forearms connected, the golden glow that had surrounded his hands flared brightly, blindingly. A sphere of pure golden energy surrounded him, flawless, almost invisible in the sunlight. The effect lingered, the Witcher's brow furrowing as he slowly parted his arms, moving so that his outstretched hands almost touched the inside of the sphere. As Frederick watched, he noted Dirk's fingers twisted into an unusual pattern, seemingly complementing the full-body gesture he had just performed. Then, after an all-too brief moment, the Witcher relaxed, hands dropping to his side as the transparent barrier flickered and faded. His shoulders slumped as he released a tense breath.

"Pretty good, huh?" He smiles. "Let's see if we can't teach you guys how to do it."

He gestured, ushering the students to move back a little, keeping their circle formation. He placed his hands on his hips, pacing around to address each one of them.

"There are a few important things to remember when casting Quen..." He explained. "Firstly, you must be totally stable while casting it. Picture yourself raising a shield to stop a charging enemy. If your footing is uncertain, you may deflect the point of his sword, but he's still going to knock you on your backside. So we want both our mind and our feet to be balanced, stable, braced. Best way to do this is to stomp the ground as you cast. Pivot your main foot forward and strike the ground just as you channel the Sign. This will help to both focus the mind, and steady the body as the power leaves you. Keep your feet about as wide apart as your shoulders for balance, and keep the weight split between them. If it helps, lean a little forward to put more forward force into your Sign.

"Second, you need to have a clear mental image of the power you are using. You are using the Sign to divert the force of the blow, moving it around you rather than through you. Try using a mental trick to help you- picture the power you're using as a waterfall in front of you, and you are the stone behind it. Think about what it feels like when you stick your hand in a waterfall, how it pushes down. Just a trickle, and maybe it will move your hand a little, but you'll still get through. If it pushes hard enough, you wouldn't be able to reach the stone on the other side of the water. So you need to picture the power in the same way. Imagine it flowing down, and make that flow a torrent that cannot be ignored. In so doing, it will drag the energy of the blow away from you. This mental image can help guide your power once it is in your hands.

"Finally, the command word. In truth, experienced Witchers do not need to shout out the Sign they are casting. The movements of the hands, the mental exertion and the flow of energy is usually enough to cast, but a spoken command is helpful, and can give added power to your Sign. As students, you'll need all the help you can get, so we need to cover how to best command the energies at your disposal. You must be firm, determined, forceful. You are commanding the power, not politely asking it for the next dance. You must be like an officer controlling his troops, giving clear, powerful instructions that will not be argued with. The pronunciation is also important. Quen. Listen to it. Quen."

As he spoke, the Witcher's lips moved around the single syllable, tasting it, exploring every facet of how it felt. The way he spoke gave the word an almost round quality, like a smooth pebble, rolling off his tongue into the air.

"Don't draw out any part of the word, give every letter equal focus, for they are all important to the Sign as a whole. Give the word a decisive conclusion, a clear end. It's not Quennnn. Its Quen. Got it?"

He looked about, seeing the comprehension in his students' eyes. He nodded happily.

"Excellent! Let's practice." He turned his gaze to the forest floor, eyes alighting upon a fallen branch. "Ah! Perfect."

He pulled the branch from the ground, dislodging clumps of dried leaves and earth from it with a shake of his hand. He tested its weight, bouncing it in his hand a few times with a satisfied nod.

"This will do." He looked back to his students. "I'll take a swing at you with this. Try to cast Quen, and deflect the blow. You probably won't block the whole blow, but your Sign can absorb at least some of the impact. Just, remember what I told you about shaping the Sign and directing the power. Focus, keep your balance, and be certain in your command."

The Nightsabers nodded, brows creasing as they began focusing their minds. Dirk moved up to the first of his students, Hilda. He stood before the Skelliger, locking his eyes with hers. After a brief moment of unspoken communication, the red-haired adept nodded, closing her eyes and drawing in a long, deep breath.

Whick!

The branch lashed out with a swift, sharp whistling noise as it raced through the air. The thin end whisked out to strike Hilda across her arm as she moved towards the position to cast the Sign, her lips still curling around the command. She winced as the full force of the strike hit her, raising an angry red line on her forearm as she stepped back half a pace. Frustration flashed in her eyes as Dirk shook his head.

"Faster." He twirled the branch again. "Don't ease the door closed on your attacker, slam it shut! Again."

He raised the branch once more, tossing it from one hand to another. As Hilda nodded her readiness, he swung once more, cutting another swift line through the air. Hilda responded much more quickly, hands swinging up as her arms crossed, feet planting firmly on the ground as she barked out the command.

"Quen!"

The clearing vibrated around her, the power in the air responding to her call. A small sphere, not as intense as Dirk's, appeared around her. The branch hit it, but did not stop. It slowed considerably, but still kept going to touch the Skelliger's side. She flinched at the contact, but clearly the blow lacked the same power as the first one. Dirk smiled.

"Better." He spun the branch, tucking it in his elbow. "You feel that?"

Hilda, panting heavily, nodded as her cheeks flushed. Dirk turned away, beginning to pace as he continued his lecture.

"Casting Signs can be draining. Your body is channeling a lot of magical energy. The more powerful your Sign, the bigger the strain. Cast too many too quickly, and you'll find yourself struggling to stay on your feet. The same goes if you try to keep a Sign up for too long. Try to keep your Quen in place for more than a second or two, and you will feel your heart begin to race, your head will swim, and you'll risk falling unconscious."

He paused before Darren, pointing to the adept.

"You next."

Darren flinched at the sudden selection, moving into a ready position, fists clenched at either side. Dirk brandished the branch, weaving a couple of circles in the air before striking. Darren responded quickly, hands rising into the cast.

"Quen!"

A golden flash surrounded him, a sphere filling the air as the branch rushed in. The golden haze shimmered uncertainly as the branch hit it, flickering to allow the branch to rush in. Darren grunted in pain as the strike caught him on the shoulder, the adept jerking back from the impact, stumbling over his own feet.

"A good first effort." Dirk commended. "But you need to work on your balance." He reached out with the branch, pushing at the young man's feet. "Move your feet further apart. Shoulder width. You are like a rock. The attack goes around you, you don't move for it."

Darren nodded, raising his hands as his feet shifted, almost assuming a boxer's stance. His eyes flashed with determination. Dirk struck again.

"QUEN!"

This time his command was a powerful bark, bouncing back off the surrounding trees. The golden barrier appeared around him, more powerful, more opaque. The branch struck it, bending noticeably, then pushed through to lick at his shoulder, barely any force remaining behind it. The young Witcher hopeful dropped his barrier, relaxing with a long sigh as Dirk turned away, approval in his smile. The Witcher Master turned to the next of his students.

~o~0~o~

Frederick found himself last in line to be tested. Carefully, he watched how the other Witcher adepts cast their Signs, taking in every scrap of advice that Dirk had to offer. Some of the Nightsabers showed more promise than others, the Sign coming to them swiftly, while a few of the group needed three or four attempts to perfect their technique. More than a few of them bore bruises from where Dirk's improvised weapon had broken through their defence and struck them.

Finally, it was Frederick's turn. He tried to quell the sudden rush of anxiety that rose in his gut when faced with the Master, but his rebellious mind would not obey his command, the knot of worry remaining in his belly. Dirk's feral yellow eyes flashed as he brandished his branch.

"You ready?" He asked.

"Not really." Frederick chuckled.

"Hah! I know the feeling." Dirk smiled. "But your enemies won't wait for you to be ready to defend yourself, and neither will I. Show me what you've got."

The branch lashed out, moving through the air with a low, sharp shriek. Frederick raised his hands, clenching his fists as he reached for the power he had already found, feeling it respond to him.

"Quen!"

The power flowed through him, up from his feet, into his arms, swirling in his head and grasping at his heart. The Sign cast itself through him, undeniable in its effort to escape from his body. His body pulsed with the energy, and a glowing sphere appeared around him.

The branch struck the energy, and powered its way through, hitting Frederick across the face. Pain welled up, his cheek pulsing with heat as the whip-like end of the branch found his wounds, summoning forth a surge of warmth from them. Frederick grit his teeth, trying to suppress a groan of pain. He flinched, his composure falling apart as one hand darted to the injury, the sphere vanishing with a flash.

"Focus!" Dirk barked. "You're too distracted. Put everything into your Sign. Use the command word to concentrate. Don't ask the magic to dance, command it!"

Frederick nodded, lowering his hand from his now glowing red cheek. He drew in a deep breath, crushing down the pain, frustration and anger that flowed through his mind, compacting it down into a concentrated, white-hot ember in his soul. His eyes flashed readiness as he shifted his feet. Dirk, seeing how he responded, shifted his grip on the branch. Then, with almost inhuman speed, the Witcher lashed out once more, branch screaming through the air with fierce intent.

In that blink of an eye, a moment turned into several as time seemed to slow around Frederick. He could see the branch, inching closer to him, and he could feel the power lurking at the back of his mind. In that instant, he felt the power surge forward, filling his fingertips and moving his arms almost of their own accord. The forearms slammed together before his face, one foot lunging forward to slam into the soil beneath him. Air rushed into his lungs, the commanding shout rising from the depths of his soul.

"QUEN!"

The energy rumbled inside him, begging for an escape. It filled every corner of his being, pulsing out from his skin in palpable waves. A barrier, brilliant in the sunlight, almost opaque as it shone gold, sprang into being around him. The branch struck it, and the shield didn't waver, completely deflecting the attack.

Dirk staggered back a pace, brows rising in surprise as the shock of the impact trembled up his arm. He glanced to his branch, and then back to Frederick, curiosity in his eyes. The adept slowly, carefully, released the energy of his Sign, chest heaving as the golden shimmer vanished from around him.

"Very well done." Dirk's compliment was quiet, as though he were a little distracted. He shrugged, shaking loose whatever bothered his mind, and turned back to the rest of the Nightsabers. "Okay students! I think that's enough about Quen now, you all seem to have the hang of it. Let's move on and talk a little bit about Aard..."


	28. Chapter 28- Aard

"Aard is the Sign of Motion, the purest expression of the Elemental power of Air." Dirk sat cross-legged in the centre of the clearing, beckoning for the Nightsabers to join him. "Common folk would assume it's similar to a Mage's psychokinetic spells, grabbing hold of an object and moving it as the caster desires, but in truth Aard is far more simple than that."

He paused, reaching out with a finger to trace a symbol in the dirt in front of himself, a triangle, it's point aiming away from the Witcher, a line running horizontally across it.

"This is Aard. As you can see, it's like an arrow, pointing in one direction. The Sign, similarly, works in one direction. You focus your energy to create a funnel of air, a blast hurling itself in the direction you choose. It can be as concentrated or as unfocused as your cast, anything from a javelin of solid air that you can use to strike with pin-point precision, or a gust of wind to rival the storms of the Skellige Isles.

"Now, to cast Aard you must-"

The Witcher paused, turning. He tilted his head, raising one ear up into the air. His brows furrowed, eyes glinting with curious light. He stood, holding out a cautioning hand to the Nightsabers, urging them to stay still.

Dirk moved cautiously through the clearing, sidling up to one of the trees that ringed the open space. Still holding out a hand to keep the Nightsabers from moving. Finally, what had grasped his attention came into view.

Out there, deep amongst the trees, a dozen or so figures moved. Plate armour shone in the sunlight flashing down through the trees, mail glinting under long cloaks. Some wore helmets, others carried bared blades, and still more carried bows. Each one, to a man, wore a scrap of blue cloth on their arms, a flicker of teal around the bicep of each figure. At the head of the column, a slight, lightly armoured woman with short, blonde hair moved lithely through the trees, a determined glare crossing her expression.

"Blue Stripes." Dirk grunted. "Must be a patrol. I knew there was a detachment here at the castle, but what are they doing out here? There haven't been any Elves in these woods for centuries."

"Who are they?" Ida asked.

"Officially, the Temerian king's elite squadron of intelligence operatives. Soldiers, saboteurs, and spies dedicated to protecting the Northern Kingdoms. In reality, they do pretty much one thing- hunt and kill Elves."

Dirk dropped onto his haunches, scuttling over to the clustered adepts.

"If they're out on patrol without any Witcher supervision, that means they want to avoid our scrutiny." He sighed. "The last thing I want to see is an Elven massacre on our doorstep."

"Can't we stop them?" Frederick asked, an uneasy feeling rising in his heart.

"They're on the payroll of the king." Dirk shrugged. "It's on the king's whim that we have Kaer Marter. It's on his terms that we have to tolerate his diplomats and soldiers and Sorceresses walking our halls."

"But Witchers are supposed to protect people!" Morold protested.

"We kill monsters for money." Dirk answered flatly. "The king and his people pay us to go after whatever threatens their way of life. Won't be long before Elves start to fill that list. Pretty soon, Witchers will be taking on contracts on the Aen Seidhe, just another monster the Humans fear."

The adepts were silent, chewing over the Master's words uneasily. Frederick wanted to say something, to protest the Witcher's pragmatic approach, but no words came forth. Then, the moment had passed, the Stripes vanished deeper into the woods, and Dirk turned back to the Nightsabers.

"Okay! On with the lesson. We don't have time to worry about Temerians and their politics."

He strode across the clearing again, heading straight for a clump of long grass and weeds to one side.

"The Aard Sign," He explained, reaching deep into the greenery, ripping away a few bundles of weeds. "harnesses the power of Elemental Air. Air can be difficult to control. It is wayward, rebellious. To properly shape it, you must be firm, decisive. You must force the air to move in a concise, focused channel. The air moves like an arrow, and so must your thoughts."

He ripped aside another clump of weeds, finally extracting something from under the greenery. Wiping some mud and half-rotten leaves from it, he placed a training dummy on its feet. The canvas holding in the straw was stained, a mottled pattern of brown and green, the wood of its arms and neck turned black by damp. A faint, musty smell rolled off it in waves.

"This is Bob. They used to use him here at Kaer Marter for Signs practice. From the looks of things, he hasn't seen the sun for a couple years, but he'll still do for our lesson." He patted the figure's shoulder before turning back to his students. "We'll cast Aard on him, see if any of you can knock him off his feet."

He stepped away from the effigy, rubbing his palms together.

"Now, the actual cast of the Sign, just like with Quen, has a technique to it. First, your hand. Use your off-hand. In my case, my left. You want to be in the habit of using the hand that isn't holding a sword. That way, you can cast Signs while in combat, which is usually the time when you'll need them most. You don't wanna be juggling your sword from hand to hand so you can use your magic. Now, trace the Sign in the air, just like this..."

He raised his left hand, thumb jutting out to the side, index and middle finger pointing straight while the remaining two fingers curled into his palm. The hand moved, fingertips tracing the symbol of the Sign in one fluid motion, a triangle with the line cutting across it. Then, his outstretched fingers curled, hand clenching into a fist.

"The symbol gives you a focus to build the power around, a place to visualise it all flowing into. After we have formed the symbol, we need to keep the power focused, hold onto it tight. Draw the hand back, towards the centre of your body, and the power comes with it, like an arrow on a bowstring, eager to be released. Hold it for just an instant, let the tension build up..."

He drew the clenched hand back, until the balled fist hovered just beside his hip, shaking as the muscles contracted.

"And then we fling it out!"

His hand darted forward, fingers splayed out, a grunt of exertion escaping from his chest. His arm extended fully, forming a straight line before his face. He held the position for a long moment, then relaxed.

"Make sure to copy those motions exactly. Aard is unpredictable, so your cast must be precise, to control the power." He demonstrated the gesture again. "Draw the Sign, build the power, pull it in towards your core, then fling it out, with as much force as you can. Don't just nudge the power away, launch it! You are imparting some physical momentum to the Sign when you throw your arm out, so really give it everything you've got!" He showed them, one more time, more slowly this time, then straightened. "Now, on to the feet..."

Dirk walked forward a few paces, until he stood in the middle of his students. He looked down at the ground, shuffling his feet a little bit.

"You're about to move a whole lot of power, and it's going to push back against you. Make sure to keep your footing." He moved his feet, placing them in line with his shoulders. He raised his hand. "As you draw back, move your foot back at the same time. Always move the same foot back as the hand you are using to cast, keep yourself balanced. If you're twisting your body like a serpent, you'll just end up off-balance and the Sign will fail. The power you're summoning is tethered to your hand, and you must hold it firm, drag it backwards with the step. Then, as you cast, take a step forward, put your whole body into the push. Co-ordinate your hand and leg to move at the same time, to best make the Sign flow."

He demonstrated, repeating the motion. This time, his entire body flexed into the cast. As he completed the motion, his left foot launched forward, striking the earth hard enough to raise a small cloud of dust.

"Finally, the command word. In truth, the power of the command comes more from your breathing than the actual word, but the word helps you to shape your breath." He drew in a few deep breaths. "Make the air flow within you, in... and out. Then, as you muster the power with your hand, draw in the biggest breath you can, and release it in one blast as you throw out your hand. The word, Aard, shapes your breath. Like with Quen, the word must be focused, condensed. Do not draw it out. Aard. Not Aaaaarrrrd, you're not a Skelliger on a raid." He spared a wink for Hilda, who smiled as her cheeks flushed. "Well, most of you aren't."

The Nightsabers chuckled, more than a few smiles passing between them. Dirk grinned.

"So! Again, give every letter the same focus, and do not draw it out. The word is the twang of a bowstring, the crack of a lightning bolt, the final word of a war cry." His hands clapped together. "Now! Let's see if you can cast it. Form a line."

The Nightsabers obeyed, quickly filing into formation. Frederick found himself at the back of the line, once again the last one to have a chance of casting the Sign. At the head of the column of students, Dirk paced back and forth.

"Now, as I said before, a key element of casting Aard is your focus, being firm and decisive. Most people find anger a good focusing lens for their mind. So, to cast this Sign, I want you to picture someone in your life that inspires fierce anger, someone that truly makes your blood boil. Like sunlight through a piece of glass, use your fury to condense that power, a shaft of pure, raw, Elemental energy."

The Nightsabers nodded, and Dirk stepped out of the way, allowing the first of the students, Darren, to step up.

The young adept stepped forward, glaring at Bob, the dummy. His hands clenched and released by his sides. Dirk watched him carefully.

"So! Tell me, who is it you're picturing in your mind? Who is the target of your rage?"

"The Witcher who claimed me as his child of destiny." Darren growled.

"And damned you to life as a Witcher." Dirk concluded for him, chuckling under his breath. "Excellent choice! I do love it when students take it out on their father figures." He stepped aside, spreading his palms wide as he mockingly bowed a little. "On you go, student. Let that Witcher have it!"

Darren nodded, turning to face his newfound target. His shoulders rose and dropped as he pulled in a deep breath. Then, slowly, his arm rose, tracing the symbol. His foot moved back as he drew in the power, and even from the back of the line, Frederick could feel the energy ripple out from him. Then, with a grunt, Darren cast his arm forward.

"Aard!"

The air before Darren rippled, rolling forward with a loud rushing sound. An almost invisible bolt of air dashed across the clearing, hitting the training figure in the chest. 'Bob' rocked backwards, leaning precariously back as clumps of dirt spilled out from its crevices. Then, after a long, hesitant second, it tipped back, slamming back upright. Dirk clapped his hands together.

"A good try! You nearly had him over! Not bad for a brand new adept." He nodded in approval. "Next!"

Hilda stepped up behind Darren, eyeing the dummy carefully. Dirk stepped in close.

"Now, when you cast, remember that-"

He paused, turning to look behind the Nightsabers. All of his students turned to see what had grabbed his attention.

Master Njall strode into the clearing, straightening from where he had been leaning against a tree. He smiled as he walked towards his students.

"I was curious to see how your Signs lesson was going." He muttered. "I hope that my students have been giving a good accounting of themselves."

"Njall!" Dirk chuckled. "They show some promise. We were just about to find out who it is that gets each of them angry. So far we've already got one father figure. What do you reckon? Think there are going to be any more?"

"That's what the students always go with, isn't it?" The Skelliger chuckled, turning a smile to Hilda. "And I've no doubt our little island princess here will not disappoint."

Hilda frowned at his words, her spine stiffening. Her lips turned downward just a fraction as she moved to face the dummy once more. Dirk folded his arms, watching her reaction with a raised eyebrow.

"So? Who is it going to be? Who makes you angriest, Hilda of Clan Brokvar?"

The young Skelliger chewed her lip for a moment, irritated frown still gracing her features.

"Well right now I'm pretty tempted to name a Master not far from here." Blazing eyes darted to Njall, who only laughed in response. "But I will say my father."

"Another father figure!" Dirk crowed, slapping his hands together. Beside him, Njall grinned, seeming to only further enrage Hilda. "Excellent! Now, let's see how you cast."

Hilda nodded, shifting on her feet. One foot twisted, planting itself firmly into the soil. She drew in a deep breath, tracing the Sign. She drew back, expanding her chest, and cast.

"Aard!"

The shout bounced around the clearing, the Sign leaping forth from her outstretched hand. The bolt of concentrated air formed around her hand, wild, untempered. It darted towards the dummy, pulsing as it moved through the air. It struck 'Bob' square in the chest, but failed to retain all of its force, instead washing around the body of the target, tilting it backwards, but still not knocking it over. Instead, the branches and leaves behind 'Bob' rippled and danced as the Sign passed through them. Dirk surveyed the results with a satisfied grunt.

"A good amount of power, but unfocused. You let your rage distract you a little too much. You need a tighter grip on your emotions, use them as a way to intensify your power, not detract from it." He turned, looking to the next adept in line, Ragodar. "You. Your turn!"

~o~0~o~

One by one, each of the Nightsabers stepped up, naming the target of their ire and trying to cast the Sign. Over and over again the training dummy shivered, swaying back and forth as the powerful gusts blasted it. Many individuals were named by the adepts, from parents to old employers, to various Witchers around the castle. Each time one was named that Dirk considered to be a 'father figure', the Witcher grew more excited. Every time, 'Bob' swayed, but wouldn't fall. Each of the Nightsabers walked away from the target, a frown of disappointment on their faces.

Finally, it was Frederick's turn. Dirk clapped his hands in anticipation.

"Okay! Last one. We've yet to see Bob fall, but maybe you can do it?" He stood next to the young adept, facing the target. "Now, whoever it is that makes you angriest, picture them in your mind, grab hold of that rage, and use it. So tell me, who are you thinking of?"

Frederick paused, digging deep, thinking about all the people who had passed through his life. In the end, only one figure could truly summon forth his rage, one person who had wronged him sufficiently to turn his mind red with ire.

"Travis Jon, the Mage of Asheberg. The man who raised me."

"A Mage?" Dirk's brow rose curiously. "Okay, wow. Unexpected. But still another father figure! Amazing. Now take that, and channel it..."

Frederick faced his target, eyes narrowing in concentration. He sighed, allowing every gasp of air to seep from his lungs. He closed his eyes, allowing his mind to still. The image of Travis, clad in his customary robes, rose in his mind. The Mage wore a frown on his bearded face, ink staining his fingertips. Anger blossomed in Frederick's heart, bubbling up from deep within him. He grasped hold of the white-hot star of fury in his gut, holding it tight in his soul. Suddenly, the world grew clear around him, the air crystallising. Power surged within his body.

His foot moved back, hand spinning around to form the Sign. The power in his body flowed into his fingers, caressing his palm as the symbol formed in the air before him, glowing a faint white. In his mind's eye, the Sign shone with far more intensity, like a sun hovering before his gaze, burning with fierce white fire. He clenched his fist, pulling it back, closer and closer to his body. A white tendril of energy stretched from the symbol to his hand, pulses of energy surging along it into the Sign. The burning energy pulsed, fighting to escape, fighting against the link that shackled it to his fist. He drew in a deep breath.

"AARD!"

The command wore tore loose from his throat, roaring out into the sky. As it did so, his hand shot out, foot lunging forward, and the power burst forth, set free of its bond to him.

His body roared in response, the wave of energy tearing through him. It funnelled down, down into his fingertips, growing more and more dense as it moved, until finally it leapt free of his hand, pouring into the glowing glyph in the air before him. The symbol vanished in a flash, replaced by a turbulent, wild ball of primal power, a bolt of air made solid.

The bolt of energy screamed across the clearing, a juggernaut of concentrated air barrelling towards the target. It bulled into 'Bob' with a terrible crash. The target offered no resistance, tumbling backwards on the wave of near-solid air. It somersaulted back, bouncing off a few trees and landing in the deep weeds with a loud rustle. Tree branches snapped, and a shower of leaves pattered down on the forest floor. The air fell still.

All was silent for just a moment, every eye turning to Frederick, panting from the exertion as black clouds tugged at the edges of his vision. Dirk paused just a moment, regarding the fallen target with a critical eye.

"Well... remind me not to make you angry!" He chuckled. "You said you grew up with a Mage, yes? That would explain a lot. Nevertheless, well done! Our first success of the lesson."

He turned back to the others, a question in his eyes.

"Now, who would like to take a crack at knocking Bob over again?"


	29. Chapter 29- Igni

The afternoon had progressed considerably by the time the Nightsabers grew bored of casting Aard, their practice target having tumbled into the underbrush more than a few times as each Witcher hopeful stepped up to try their hand. Some took to the Sign more or less straight away, like Frederick, while others still needed pointers from Dirk before, after several failures, they'd finally succeed and knock the target over.

Meanwhile, Njall had moved to the edge of the clearing, settling down against one of the trees, unhooking his drinking horn from his belt and filling it from a flask he carried. Over time, the Skelliger slowly drifted into a daze, downing his drink, his eyelids drooping closed as the full heat of the afternoon hit him.

Frederick, on the other hand, stood to one side, watching his friends with mild amusement. He didn't need to try again. His first display of arcane skill was more than enough. Instead, he stood by one of the trees, palm pressed against the rough bark. His other hand reached up to his medallion, fingers tracing the outline of the snarling cat's head. The medallion thrummed under his touch, vibrating violently. When he caressed it, the young adept felt his connection to the magic of the world grow stronger, as though he were donning a pair of Master Travis' reading spectacles. The world around him pulsed with colour, power bleeding through the barriers of nature to glow around every leaf, every blade of grass, every insect coursing through the air on some nonsense mission or another. Deep beneath the ground, he could hear a faint roar, a howling of something cascading through the bones of the earth. Instinctively, he knew what it was. Just as the faint trails of magic the Witchers brushed at with their minds could be compared to streams or rivers, so too there had to be an ocean, a roaring, turbulent sea into which all other courses did flow.

He'd seen it, once before. Back in the days following the accident, when his body had lain as if dead in some alchemist's cot, his mind had been cast loose, caught up in the eddies of the spell he had tried to cast. His soul had drifted far in those days, swept along on the magical current until he was unceremoniously flung into that deep, sunless sea, impossibly far beneath the skin of the world. He'd burned, his heart, mind and soul scorched by magical fire, an invisible throat screaming for release as every thought, every emotion, every momentary instinct, was pulled apart and crushed back together by the wild arcane currents over and over again. And then, with sharp suddenness that was almost as bad as the torment, he'd been pulled back to his body, some Witcher's work bringing him back to the realm of the living. The correct feeling to instinctively experience after that was gratitude, and yet... he couldn't help but feel more than a little resentment at having the grand, vast ocean of power so mercilessly whisked away. The glimmering token between his fingers offered a small route back to that power, a morsel from a banquet, but Frederick couldn't help but hunger for more. He stared at the medallion, hearing the sound of waves coming from beyond it.

"Okay!"

Dirk's sudden shout, accompanied by the slap of his hands coming together, wrenched Frederick from his thoughts, reality slamming into him with brutal force. He turned to see the Witcher standing next to 'Bob', the dummy now much the worse for wear, an arm snapped off, its canvas body in disarray. The Witcher surveyed his students, taking in the circle of panting, red-faced adepts.

"You feel that?" He asked. "The burn in your muscles, the beating of your heart, the rush of blood through your skull? I bet you all feel as though you've just been running drills with Bastian! This is what it feels like when you cast many Signs, one after the other. Be careful not to exhaust yourself while in combat, otherwise you'll end up leaving yourself defenceless. Now! Let's finish off our class with something a little more... exciting."

The Witcher dropped into a crouch, once again tracing a symbol in the dirt. This time, it was a simpler triangle than the one for Aard, no line crossing it. Again, the point was directed away from him.

"Igni." Dirk explained. "I'm sure you've heard of this one. Raw Elemental Fire, channelled to obey a Witcher's command. The Sign has many practical uses, but the most common by far is to attack. Casting the Sign has its challenges, as Fire can be difficult to control, but once it is mastered, the Sign can be a formidable weapon.

"To channel the power of fire, you need to channel the correct emotions. Think about Fire. What do you think it is?"

"Hunger." One of the students muttered.

"Destruction." Another added.

"Passion." A third voice chimed in.

"Rage." Darren, staring at the symbol in the ground, did not look up as he spoke.

"Very good." Dirk commended. "All aspects of Elemental Fire. Let's focus on this last two, passion and rage, or anger."

The Witcher continued pacing, his hand gestures underlining every word.

"Our emotions are the easiest way for us to tap into the elements, and Fire is no exception. Passion, that simmering heat that lurks within us whenever we indulge in our vices, spend time with a beautiful partner, or when we feel motivated for a cause, and anger, be it the burning frustration of desires denied, the scorching blaze of rage, or the inferno of battle fury. By far the easiest to tap into is anger, as this can so often rise up in our hearts with little effort, but it is also risky, all too easy to lose control of. Passion, on the other hand, is rarer, but more controlled, and potentially more powerful. Essentially you're choosing between the bright, fast-burning flames, or the longer-lasting, less intense ones."

He paused, raising a hand to face palm-upwards before himself. His thumb, index and middle finger curled together.

"Focus your emotions just right, and you can summon forth fire, just like this!"

He snapped his fingers, the tip of his middle finger striking the fleshy part of his palm with a loud thwack. As it did so, the Witcher's eyes flashed, a golden light blazing in the centre of his gaze for just a second. It faded, and a new light surged into existence, hovering just above his hand. A tiny flame, about the size of a grape, floated in the air before the Witcher, dancing on the breeze. Dirk moved his hand, the flame moving with it.

"Getting the kind of focus and control for small, concentrated displays like this can be challenging. You'll find your first few casts to be large, messy, wild. But eventually you'll get to this point."

He waved his hand, the flame vanishing in a wink.

"So let's get to casting!" Rubbing his hands together, the Witcher moved to the far side of the clearing, where the rotten stump of a fallen tree waited. "This will be our target. Try not to miss. I don't imagine Grandmaster Treysse would be too impressed if we burned down his forest!

"I'll split you into two groups, a half dozen in each. Igni can be a difficult one to cast your first time, so I want you all to work together on this. Reach out into the magic around us, and try to understand how your friends are tapping into it. Observe how it flows around them, ripples back and forth between each of you. Learn the way it weaves connection between each and every one of you, and tap into that connection. Together, your power will feed off one another, and grow stronger. You will be more powerful than you ever could be working alone."

Dirk dropped to his knees, finding a stick in the dirt. He snapped it, exposing a sharpened end, then began running it across the rotten bark of the tree stump, tracing the symbol of Igni before moving to the trunk of the fallen tree, lying half-submerged in the dirt, and doing the same again. Soon enough, the Nightsabers had two targets to focus on. He stood, turning to face his students.

"That anger that I had you summon before, for Aard? That will serve as the fuel you use for this Sign. Like I said, anger and rage are the easiest emotions to use as the spark to ignite your cast, a flashpoint to set the energy ablaze." He flung the stick aside, dusting his hands off. "Just like with Aard, trace the Sign with your off-hand, pouring all of your energy into the symbol. Pull it back towards your body, build up the tension, then release, along with the command word. Again, position your feet to give you the most stability, allowing you to push the power into the Sign. Move the same foot as your casting hand, and keep the whole motion fluid. As you'll be co-operating to cast this, you need to synchronise your movements with the rest of your group. You have to be completely in tune with one another. So! Let's go. First group!"

Half of the Nightsabers stepped forward at Dirk's command, the Witcher pointing each of them out. In moments, Cyrus, Ida, Colin, Merinea, Ragodar and Morold had been summoned forth, forming a line in the centre of the clearing. A little prodding from the Master, and they were in formation.

"Okay, good!" Dirk moved off to one side. "Together now! Raise your hands, draw the Sign, pull it back, and..."

The first group of Nightsabers followed Dirk's instructions, obediently drawing the symbol, their hands moving in unison. As they did so, each one drawing in a long, deep breath, Frederick sensed the energy swirling around them. The newfound presence in his mind trembled as the six adepts all tensed, summoning vast waves of power to their side. An electric thrill surged through the air, and Frederick sensed his pulse beginning to race, heat swelling in his muscles. His breath caught in his throat, tension rising in his gut as he felt the energy, longing to escape into the world. Finally, just as the young mage's apprentice thought he couldn't stand the sensation any longer, the six adepts thrust their hands forward with a powerful cry.

"IGNI!"

The air crackled, a faintly glowing line thrusting forth from the outstretched palms, shafts of primal essence leaping through the air to mingle in a focused column, striking the mark Dirk had placed on the tree stump. The symbol the Witcher had created glowed, first a dull red, then orange, yellow, and finally white. Wisps of smoke rose from the damp, rotten wood, until finally the bark popped audibly, tiny fingers of flame licking out from under the surface. A bright flash announced the birth of a powerful, intense blaze. In a moment, the entire stump had been consumed, a fierce inferno. The students relaxed, lowering their arms, and the energy dissipated, the scent of burning wood and smoke drifting through the air. Dirk stepped forward, inspecting the newborn fire with a nod of his head.

"Not bad, not bad! A little slow, but we can work on that." He kicked a piece of shattered bark, faint embers glowing around its edges, back into the blaze. "You show good promise. Already working together well, co-ordinated, precise. Keep practicing, and you'll be a formidable force to deal with."

Dirk spun, moving away from the fire. He glanced to the rest of the Nightsabers.

"Second group, step up! Let's see how you can work together."

Frederick moved up with the rest of the students, finding himself between the two brothers from Velen, Otto and Fordalt. Beside them, Hilda, Darren and Krenai also stepped up. Dirk paced before them, hands folded before his stomach. He paused, turning to look at his students. His gaze met with Frederick's, lingering just a moment.

"Remember, use that anger I helped you find before. Grasp hold of that heat, that glowing heart of energy, and direct it. Take that heat and make it flow from your hand, out through the symbol and into your target."

Once again, the Witcher moved aside, allowing the students a clear view of their target, the fallen tree trunk next to the now-burning stump.

Frederick sighed, releasing all of his tension in one long breath. His eyes narrowed, glaring at the symbol scratched into the bark. Pausing, he breathed in, then out, then in again, each long breath helping still his mind, allowing him to further bond with the power lurking in his mind. His fingers tingled with anticipation, the energy of the land flowing into every corner of his being. He glanced to either side, locking his gaze with each of his Nightsaber comrades. With a nod, each one confirmed their readiness.

The world grew still as Frederick turned his attention back to the target, raising his hand along with his friends. The energy in his heart rushed to his fingers as he traced the symbol, an image of the Sign appearing in his mind's eye. The symbol glowed brightly, almost blinding before him. As the energy surged through him, he felt the power within his centre reach out towards the other adepts, connecting with them as they reached out to him. The combined reserves of the Nightsabers mixed, the power brewing with increasing potency. The students pulled their hands back, six glowing stars of arcane power pulled back towards the cores of each adept. Connected to the growing Sign, Frederick felt the power flowing into the symbols, pulsing with every movement of the adepts. Tension rose in his muscles again, anticipation at the release of the energy building in his soul. His legs began to tremble, his clenched fist shaking. Finally, the power had built up enough, and the Nightsabers lunged forwards, feet stamping the earth as hands darted forward.

"IGNI!"

The Sign in Frederick's mind flared, blindingly bright, and darted away, joining with those from the other students.

The Sign roared across the clearing, slamming into the target with brutal force. The symbol flared, glowing for just a blink as the damp wood resisted, but the hesitance only lasted half an instant before the wood burst into flame, a brilliant blaze that consumed it instantly, reducing the entire trunk to ash in seconds. Moments later, the tree trunk collapsed, the flames consuming it entirely. Soon enough, only smoke remained.

Nodding in approval, Dirk stepped forward once more.

"Excellent!" He grunted. "Good flow, nice emphasis on the command word, and perfect synchronisation! A most powerful cast."

He stepped up to stand in the midst of his students, looking to both groups.

"Igni is a powerful Sign. It channels raw Fire. In the wrong hands, it can be devastating. Always remember that when casting. If you let it get out of hand, it will burn you. There are many magic users who carry the scars of misusing the power."

The students were silent for a long, uncomfortable moment. Finally, the dark instant passed, a smile spreading across Dirk's expression.

"But enough of that!" He clapped his hands together. "No need to darken this day with such worries. You have all done very well, and shown great potential in your Signcasting. Let's call it a day there, and head back to the castle. Let's see if there's a fresh keg of ale waiting for us in the tavern." He paused, turning to Njall. "What do you say, Njall?"

The Skelliger jolted awake, a grunt escaping his throat as he opened his eyes. His brows rose inquisitively as he glanced to the Wolf School Witcher.

"I'm pretty sure I heard you mention ale."

Dirk chuckled at the Skelliger's mumbled words.

"Priorities in line as always!" He shook his head, before turning to lead the class out of the clearing with a twitch of his head. "Come on. Let's go."

~o~0~o~

The sun was setting, turning the sky a burnt orange, the air in the clearing slowly cooling.

Frederick had returned, several hours after the Nightsabers had left. He couldn't help it. Even as his friends settled down in the tavern with mugs of cool ale and the odd glass of red wine, the young adept had found himself distracted, unable to take his mind away from the place, the energy, the power. He had to come back.

To one side, the smoking remnants of the fallen tree still glowed with raw heat, the scent of ash filling the air. Frederick walked into the middle of the clearing, his medallion jumping against his chest. Beneath his feet, the power of the circle roared.

"I thought I would find you here."

Dirk's voice made the young adept jump, spinning to face the Witcher. The Master leaned against one of the trees at the edge of the clearing, a small smile on his face.

"I've seen the same look that's on your face before, in the eyes of new adepts, just after they've had the veil lifted from their eyes and they see the truth of the arcane world. It's intoxicating, isn't it? The magical energy of a Place of Power like this." He stalked over to the adept, head bowed in thought. "It can be addictive, coming out here to drink from the source. But also dangerous. The energy can affect your mind, just like a bag full of Fisstech."

"I've felt something like this before." Frederick stretched his arms out, palms down, feeling the aura reach back towards him, surging up through his arms. "Similar, but bigger. Much bigger."

"You grew up with a Mage, yes?" Dirk nodded. "Not surprising that you've been exposed to magical energies before."

Frederick's lip curled at the comment. 'Exposed' was one word for it, certainly. He suppressed an amused chuckle. Dirk's brow twitched at that, but the Witcher did not press his student for an explanation. Instead, he went back to pacing, tracing a circle around Frederick.

"The school has need of someone with your talents, adept. We have a task for anyone with magical potential. Interested?"

Frederick paused, glancing carefully at the Master. The Witcher's vague words concerned him, but he couldn't deny his curiosity. There was only one way to learn more.

"Say I was interested..." The adept began cautiously. "What would you need from me?"

Dirk smiled grimly, nodding.

"Good man. Meet me and Master Vreni tomorrow, after sundown. Bring your friends, the lass from Skellige and that child of destiny. We're going to need a lot of power."

"What are we going to do?" Frederick asked.

"Something amazing." Dirk grinned. "Something stupid, and something undeniably dangerous. I can say no more, until tomorrow."

The Witcher turned, leaving the clearing. Behind him, Frederick waited just a moment longer, hand reaching up to his medallion, lips pursed in thought. Finally, with a sigh, he left, heading back in the direction of the castle.

The clearing was silent for just a moment more. Then, unseen by the Witchers, something else moved, just beyond the far edge of the clearing. Hazel eyes blinked, and a slight figure shifted, vanishing deeper into the forest.


	30. Chapter 30- The Tavern

The tavern was a bustling nest of laughter, idle chit-chat and singing, most of the Witchers and adepts having gathered after a long day of lessons. Countless flagons of ale, many of them now empty, dotted the tables while in the corner Crescentia, a bard clad in red plucked the strings of her harp idly, singing an old Redanian ditty. At one of the tables, a group of adepts chanted uproariously as one of their number tackled a bottle of some unidentifiable clear liquid. Some more adepts sat in a circle around the fireplace, listening attentively as the Witcher known as Jodok told them a tale from his life as a Witcher.

The Nightsabers sat around one of the tables, much drink flowing between them. Otto and Fordalt, the two brothers, were locked in some kind of drinking contest, an impressive array of empty mugs already in front of them. Neither one showed any signs of slowing. Ragodar sat to one side, conversing with the fair haired bard known as Sylvia. A book lay open between the two, it's words of great interest to each of them.

At the head of the table, Hilda sat to one side of Master Njall, the two Skelligers conversing in depth. In the lap of the Nightsabers' mentor sat Master Elinor, the red-haired Witcheress leaning her head on Njall's shoulder as she listened to the islanders' conversation, occasionally chiming in.

Frederick sat back in his chair, silently surveying those around him. As his muscles melted into the curve of the seat, he felt an unfamiliar serenity steal its way through his mind. After months of drills, bestiary lessons and survival classes, an evening with no commitments, no worries, was a welcome change. The castle felt almost peaceful. Almost.

"I'm gonna do it!"

All eyes in the hall turned to Reinicke, the lanky fencing instructor, wearing his trademark wide-brimmed hat and cocksure smile. The Witcher was standing, barely, a wine cup in one hand, the other one wavering erratically in the air before himself. It looked like he was pointing at Algir, but no one could tell for sure. Perhaps he was trying to point at the wall behind his fellow Witcher, or maybe half of the rest of the castle. Reinicke stumbled, hardly keeping his feet.

"You dare to doubt the grace of Reinicke?" His words slurred. "I'll show you. I am the Lord... of the dance!"

One of the gathered adepts put a careful hand on the Witcher's arm, but Reinicke merely shrugged it off. With a grunt, he slammed a hand on the table before himself, pressing a lot of his weight down into it. A shaking foot found the bowl of a chair, almost knocking it over, before a heaving grunt propelled the Witcher up high enough for his knee to hit the table with a loud crack, a thunderous curse escaping his throat. With a surly mutter, Reinicke tried again, this time finding enough purchase to haul himself up onto the wooden surface, breathing heavily as he found himself on hand, knees and one elbow, his wine cup still held aloft. Wine dribbled down the sides of the cup as he drew it close to his lips, drawing in a long, loud slurp. Then, with renewed determination in his eyes, the Witcher struggled upright, first on his knees, then slowly standing, until his towering frame loomed over all in the hall. Once again, the pointing finger moved in the direction of a few faces, before waving in the general direction of the bards.

"Music!"

One of the bards- Severin, Frederick recalled- began strumming his lute, a swift, bouncing melody. Reinicke, grinning from his perch atop the table, started to clap his hands together, wine slopping out of his cup with every slap of his palms. He flexed his knees, bobbing his head along with the tune. Around him, adepts began clapping, first slowly, then faster, and faster, and faster. As the rhythm quickened, the bard following the crowd, Reinicke began to bob and weave, body flexing as his hands moved. One leg kicked out, jabbing at the air. A whistle carried over the crowd, its owner unseen. The clapping continued as Reinicke cavorted on the tabletop, mugs and plates jangling with every boot slamming down on the solid oak. Then, with a mighty shout, Reinicke leapt into the air, spinning like a dervish, landing with a mighty thud. For half an instant, it looked as though the Witcher would pull the move off, but just as his confident grin shone brightly, his ankle buckled under him, and the fencing instructor tumbled onto the table, landing in a heap of long legs, wavering arms, and spilt wine. All was silent for just a second, then Reinicke whooped, throwing his arms up into the air.

"I am the one true Lord!" He yelled jubilantly. "All hail the Lord of the Table!"

Around him, the adepts fell about in an uproar, some chanting his name, others calling for more, still others boasting that they could have done the same. At the table with the Nightsabers, Frederick couldn't quite stifle a grin as he watched the proceedings, the others around him similarly amused. Even Njall and Elinor, grim and hardened Witchers as they were, had trouble suppressing a few chuckles.

Peace fell across the hall again, Frederick moving his attention from the jubilant fencing Master as he noted movement close to the main door. Suddenly, his breath caught in his throat as he noted the figure standing there.

Master Bastian stood at the top of the small flight of stairs leading down into the tavern, his expression stony as he surveyed the revelry. His eyes gleamed, unreadable in the dim light, lips under neatly trimmed moustache turning down ever so slightly. His gaze roved over the gathered Witchers and their students, surveying them in much the same way a general would observe his troops. As that glare moved to the Nightsabers' table, it suddenly grew even more icy, the eyes almost cold enough to make frost appear on the windows of the hall. His gaze narrowed as he looked to Elinor, nestled in Njall's lap. Then, with sudden, predatory swiftness, the Master began to approach.

Frederick felt the knot in his stomach grow tight, panic rising in his throat. His fists clenched involuntarily, readying for the fight he was certain was about to begin. His eyes darted about, taking in all of the details of the tavern. How many of the Nightsabers had noticed? Darren, for one. The Brothers from Velen, Merinea, Colin. The others appeared oblivious. What about Bastian's group of students, the Claws? He could see a few of them around. Would they leap to their Master's aid, if he tried to attack another Master? All of this thought took up precious seconds, and before Frederick could even begin to think up a way to respond, Bastian was upon them, looming over the table, standing right next to Njall and Elinor. Suddenly, everyone present was aware of his appearance, and the jovial atmosphere evaporated. Even those on a few nearby tables picked up on the sudden dead zone in the atmosphere, and more than a few students tensed, ready for... something. Algir, sat at the closest table, placed his palms on the tabletop, ready to spring to his feet.

Bastian looked down at Elinor and Njall, his face unmoving, his eyes utterly unreadable. His lips pressed together, clearly chewing down on some deep, difficult thought. Then, with a sigh, he reached out, grabbing hold of Elinor's chin. His head darted forwards, downwards, and the lips of the two Witchers met in a firm, deep kiss.

All around the table froze in utter confusion, some exchanging a few perplexed glances, most unable to look away as Bastian and Elinor shared the long, passionate moment, he leaning down into the gesture, she with her arms still draped around Njall's neck. Finally, Bastian broke the contact, coming up for air. He straightened, countenance still grim. Turning on his heel, he marched out as quickly as he had entered, without a word.

The Nightsabers, to a man, all released a sigh of relief at the same time, visibly relaxing. Behind them, Algir slowly sagged back into his chair. Meanwhile, Njall and Elinor looked to each other, a mildly amused smirk on their faces. They glanced to the Nightsabers, seeing the mixture of confusion and bewilderment in their expressions. Njall was first to break the silence.

"He... doesn't quite understand, but we're all friends here. He's going with it, in his own way."

"I thought he was gonna try and come over here and kick your arse!" Darren breathed.

"Hah!" Njall barked loudly. In his lap, Elinor grinned. "It wouldn't be the first time he's tried. He's fast, sure, but when it comes to straight-up arse-kicking, I've always had the longer legs and much, much bigger feet."

"I still don't get it." Cyrus piped up as the other adepts chuckled. "So... you three?"

"Not exactly. Kind of. Sort of." Njall waggled a hand in the air uncertainly. "Not him and me, definitely. But we both care enough about Elinor." He squeezed the Witcheress in his lap. "To ignore each other."

"And you're okay with... sharing?" Ida asked uncertainly.

"In Skellige, we have a saying: if you love something, or someone, you don't keep them to yourself. Bastian doesn't quite see things the same way as we do, but he tolerates it."

"How does Bastian see things differently?" Colin asked curiously.

"Bastian tends to be more... committed." Elinor explains. "It's unusual among Witchers."

"How so?" Morold asked.

"We live long, dangerous lives." Njall answered. "Long term commitments can take their toll on the heart. Sometimes, you're just looking for a distraction, nothing more." He nods to the door of the tavern, where the Nightsabers were just quick enough to spot two retreating backs, locked arm in arm, giggling. "Some live for those moments, the quick, fiery passions of a single night, a different love every day. Others turn it into something of a game."

"I've seen that." Hilda interjected. "They make 'collections', trophies, almost. Some have quite impressive lists of Masters..."

Njall grinned.

"And are you collecting, your Highness?"

Hilda's eyes flashed at the goading taunt, but then a strange fire glowed in her gaze, and her lips pulled back from her teeth in an almost feral grin.

"Not in so many words. Besides, any Masters I might be interested in already have beautiful women sitting in their laps..."

Elinor grinned at the comment, eyes twinkling as she leaned across Njall's chest, eyelashes fluttering as her voice took on a husky, sensual tone.

"Well, if that's the case, why not just collect two 'trophies' at once?"

Hilda sputtered at the comment, while many of the jaws of the Nightsabers dropped. Frederick tried to keep an ear tuned into the conversation, but a sudden disturbance at the other side of the tavern dragged his attention away.

Reinicke had been rescued from the heap he had fallen in on the table, merrily singing a rowdy ditty as some students eased him into a chair. As they were doing so, a new figure appeared next to them, a blue-clad man who Frederick recognised as the Temerian envoy, Jost. If anything, he appeared even more inebriated than Reinicke, leaning heavily on one of the female adepts, a huge grin on his face. As he spoke, the words barely formed in any sensible fashion.

"So I hear that someone has declared himself a Lord." He slurred. "This is disgraceful! I cannot allow this challenge to Temerian authority to go unchallenged!"

"I'm not worried, Jost!" Reinicke leered. "Go back to your palaces, you... you big, blue, stupid peacock!"

"Oh, we're going there are we?" Jost chuckled. "You... you... youuuuu Witcher!" He chuckled at his own wit. "Lord of the Table... Lord of the Stables, more like! Let a real Lord show you how it's done!"

The gathered adepts howled at the challenge, some jeering at the envoy, others cheering him on, still others too drunk to care as long as they made some noise. Reinicke, sprawled across his chair like some primal warlord, one leg propped over an armrest languorously, waved a hand towards the table, a grand invitation. Jost quickly obliged, clambering up onto the table with some help.

The bard, Severin, moved close again, strumming his lute as the envoy struggled to find his feet. In moments, the clapping began again, this time more wild, erratic. Finding a tune in the din proved more and more difficult. Jost, meanwhile, was keeping to his own tune, swaying back and forth. He began to tap his feet, one two three four one-two-three, raising a shaking foot occasionally as he clapped. Cheers and cries of derision rang out around him.

Then, with a mighty crash, the envoy collapsed, plates, knives and forks leaping from the table as mugs of ale spilled across the oak. In the heart of the chaos, Jost lay almost comatose, laughing to himself uncontrollably. He spluttered to get a few words out.

"I have a tankard up my arse!"

Laughter burst out from among the crowd of adepts, many cheering the Temerian on and declaring him the new Lord of the Table, while others still remained loyal to Reinicke. The fencing Master, meanwhile, had dozed off in his chair, snoring loudly as his head sagged backwards. The rest of the Tavern dissolved into a riot of laughter, chatter and singing.

Chuckling, Frederick turned back to his own table to find it far less crowded. Ragodar had moved away, talking to the fair haired bard known as Sylvia. Darren had also wandered off, talking to the red-clad harpress known as Crescentia. Cyrus and Ida had vanished, secreting themselves away in some quiet corner. Most notable, however, was that both Njall and Elinor had vanished, as had Hilda. Frederick looked about in surprise, before finally catching sight of a flash of red hair on the upper floor overlooking the Tavern. As he glanced up, he caught sight of Hilda walking up the stairs, a Master on each arm. The young mage's apprentice looked on incredulously, his jaw hanging open. He glanced to Morold, only for he young Witcher adept to give him a knowing shake of his head, a grin across his features. Frederick struggled to find any words.

"I- did she just- I mean... REALLY?!"

"I know." Morold shook his head again. "Only Hilda, right?"

Frederick glanced up again, catching a final glimpse of Hilda, an incredibly broad grin gracing her features, just before she vanished out of the hall. The Nightsaber adept could only shake his head in surprise. He turned back to Morold, an incredulous chuckle in his throat.

"Whatever happens, we CANNOT tell Bastian about this!"


	31. Chapter 31- Reinicke

The sun beat down on the training field before the castle, mercilessly hot, relentless as it glared down at the students. A scarce breeze drifted across the field, lightly touching the grass and setting a gentle ripple through the leaves of the trees that marked the borders of Kaer Marter's grounds. The air hummed with the noise of dozens of adepts all undergoing various forms of training, from the archery range to the drills being run by Master Bastian around the fountain. In the shade of the trees, Gedymin could be seen watching the training, arms folded, a lanky student by his side. On the steps to the castle, Grandmaster Treysse also watched the proceedings, bearded face locked in a meditative scowl.

Out next to one of the few trees that stood apart from the others, in the centre of the training ground, the Nightsabers stood in a small, close-knit huddle, quietly watching the Witcher Master who was due to take charge of their lessons that morning.

Tall, lean, and ever donning a distinctive, wide-brimmed hat, Master Reinicke was a figure not easily missed. Easily standing head and shoulders above almost any other in the castle, save for Master Njall himself, Reinicke's lanky frame hinted at an unseen strength, like a coiled serpent ready to strike. His bearded features constantly bore a broad, toothy grin, reflected in the mischevious glint in his eyes. At that present moment, those eyes were closed, his hat pulled forward until the brim obscured his face, chest rising and falling rhythmically under his folded arms as he leaned back against the bole of the tree. Next to him lay a heavy sack, filled to the brim with dull steel swords, the training weapons of the castle's armoury. As the Master continued to doze peacefully in the shadow of the tree, the Nightsabers waited in awkward silence.

Just as Frederick felt he could take the waiting no longer, the sounds of approaching footsteps suddenly broke the peace. The gathered students turned to see Master Njall approaching, Hilda following closely behind, a subtle spring in her step. She paused as all her fellow adepts turned to face her, questions in their gaze. Her cheeks flushed just a shade before she dipped her head and swiftly moved to stand in line with the others, coming to a halt just beside Frederick. The scholar nodded his head in greeting.

"Hilda." He muttered under his breath, eyes swiftly taking in her tangled hair and the same clothes she had worn the previous night. He smirked. "Looks like your night was full of learning."

"Not a word." Her posture was stiff as she grunted at him from behind clenched teeth, her rapidly reddening cheeks telling him that his jibe had struck true.

"As you wish, my Lady." Frederick's words oozed with honey.

"Do NOT call me that!" Her tone became even more sharp, eyes glinting wildly. "How many times do I have to say that I am nobody's damn lady?"

"If you say so, my L-" Hilda's clenched fist rose in warning. "Hilda."

The pair's conversation was soon interrupted, however, as Njall strolled over to stand next to Reinicke. He nudged the sleeping Master with his boot, taking a long drink from his horn as he did so. When Reinicke only grunted groggily, pulling his hat down to cover his face even further, the lumbering Skelliger lifted his horn to hover over the Witcher's hat, looking at it with thought for a long, silent moment, before shrugging and, with a few muttered words about it being 'a waste of good mead', instead returned to drinking from it, kicking the supine Master with even greater force.

Reinicke snorted, suddenly stirring from his slumber. He glanced up, craning his neck back to be able to meet Njall's gaze, far above him. Squinting, he lifted a hand to shield his eyes from the morning sunlight. Slowly, like the sun rising over the horizon, his face split into a broad grin.

"Njall! I didn't hear you approach." His eyes gleamed with a little humour. "How do you keep so silent with those massive hooves you call feet?"

"You know, for a Cat, you aren't so aware of your surroundings." Njall fired back, the pair sharing a smirk before the Skelliger turned back to his students. "You have a class to teach, Reinicke. My Nightsabers. Show them how not to get stuck on the wrong end of a blade."

"These are your students?" Reinicke cast a haughty glance at the adepts. "They look a little soft."

"They may not look it, but they're tough." Njall assured.

"We'll soon find out." Reinicke stepped closer to the students, adjusting his hat to sit at a more jaunty angle. He paused in front of Cyrus. "You, give me a number."

"Uhh... one?" Cyrus replied after a long moment of perplexed staring.

"No, no, no, no!" Reinicke shook his head, before stepping over towards Ida. "You, give me a better number!"

"Six?" Ida, equally confused, looked to Njall curiously, but the Skelliger offered no reply, only watching with a grin.

"Better, but still not ambitious enough!" Reinicke moved over to Morold. "You! A number. A better one than six."

"Ten." Morold replied, his expression stern as he tried to determine the Master's intent.

"Still not good enough." Reinicke sighed. "Are you all so lacking in ambition?"

"Thirty."

"Yes! Perfect!" Reinicke spun at the number, looking for its source and finding himself face to face with Darren's intense glare. "Good man! Thirty it shall be. All of you, drop and give me thirty push-ups!"

The Nightsabers collectively groaned, some quietly cursing Darren for calling out such a high number, others Reinicke for his little game. All twelve adepts obediently dropped onto all fours, the grunting of their efforts soon filling the air.

"Hey, what's with all the sad faces?" Reinicke sat on the ground before them, legs crossed as he grinned at the Nightsabers. "You should be happy, push-ups are fun! Remember to breathe, and lift your heads up. Look at me."

Frederick did so, his fellow students following suit. Reinicke, a devilish glint in his eyes, gestured towards his face.

"You cannot be having fun unless you smile, so let's see some nice big smiles from you all." He pushed at the corners of his mouth, teeth flashing white behind red lips. "And remember, a smile isn't a smile unless you can see the teeth, so show me how much you love push-ups. Smile, with teeth!"

He drawled out the word 'smile' each time he said it, grin growing broader each time as he watched the anguished faces of the adepts. Slowly, like a ripple dancing along the surface of a pond, the face of each student broke into a grin, at times more a rictus of pain or a fierce snarl of exertion, until the entire line was smiling almost manically. Frederick, in spite of the ache that was already building in his muscles, couldn't help but be amused by the absurd nature of the Witcher's instructions, his smile growing a little more genuine as he observed the ridiculous sight of twelve Witcher students, bodies bobbing up and down, faces locked in almost grisly smiles as they strained to endure the workout. Meanwhile, Reinicke sat back, watching them all with relish. Finally, the Master had had enough. Whether they had actually done thirty push-ups or not, Frederick couldn't tell. He'd lost count around fifteen.

"All right, well done! I reckon that's enough. Back on your feet, quickly now!"

Darren was first to leap to his feet, back straight as he folded his hands behind his spine.

"Thank you, Master!" The Child of Destiny barked sharply. Reinicke flinched at the words, a question in his gaze. His puzzlement only grew as more and more of the Nightsabers followed suit. He glanced to Njall, who grinned.

"You've made them stronger, Reinicke. Why shouldn't they thank you for that?"

"Oh, I like that!" Reinicke's smile grew even wider, an almost predatory gleam to it. "You think I can get them to do it again?"

"No point in asking me." The Skelliger shrugged, turning to leave. "They're your students for today. Do as you will with them."

"Oh, I will!" That feline smirk remained as Reinicke glanced around at the Nightsabers.

"Alright students!" Reinicke paused to lean down, grabbing a sword from the collection he had ready at the base of the tree, bouncing it up and down in his hand as he stalked back and forth before his class. "Swordplay basics. Time for you to learn a little more than just which end to put into your enemies. First up, taking care of your blades. I do not want to see my swords used as walking sticks. Keep the points off the ground. When you are done with them, place them flat on the ground carefully, do not just throw them aside! If I see any of you damaging one of my blades, I will quite happily break it in half over your head!"

The cautioning shine to Reinicke's gaze warned the Nightsabers that the Master's threat was all too real, and Frederick had no doubt that the Witcher would keep right on smiling as he did so. The way the seasoned monster hunter gripped his blade, swung it through the air as he spoke, made the tip bob and weave smoothly before him, the weapon seemed almost a part of him, and extension of his will upon the world and a valued piece of his own body. Frederick found it all too easy to see an almost parental concern in the Witcher's gaze as he looked at the blade in his hand. The young adept made a mental note to never mistreat a weapon in Reinicke's presence.

"Now!" Reinicke resumed speaking, his cautionary point made. "Grab yourselves a training sword each, the ones with the dull edges. I don't need you hacking pieces off one another during my class. Form a line!"

The Nightsabers darted forward, swiftly descending on the stack of training weapons. Frederick, as was his nature, held back, allowing each of the others to select a blade first. As he moved at the back of the group, he became aware that Reinicke was right behind him, and the Witcher was counting.

"Four, five, six... hurry up! Seven, eight, nine..."

Finally Frederick was able to grab a weapon, scurrying to join the ragged line his Nightsaber comrades had formed. Reinicke continued to count until the young adept came to a halt next to Hilda.

"...nineteen!" He shook his head. "Too slow, let's make it a round twenty. You! Last boy!"

Frederick started, realising that the Witcher was singling him out.

"Yes, you!" Reinicke nodded, his sardonic smile still stretched across his features. "Seeing as you're the slow one, let's see an extra twenty push-ups from you! The rest of you, stay in line."

Frederick was momentarily at a loss for words, a flare of indignation rising in his throat at being singled out in such a manner, but just one glance at Reinicke's impassive grin forced him to realise that protesting would be futile. Instead, the flush of humiliation rising in his cheeks, the former mage's apprentice sank to his knees, dropping to all fours as his muscles, still burning from the last set of push-ups, groaned in protest as he began to heave himself up and down. Slowly, he became aware of a pair of booted feet before him.

"Hey, what's with the long face?" Reinicke asked mockingly. "Remember, push-ups are fun! Let me see you smile!" Again, the word was drawn out further than was needed, an odd lilt to the single syllable as the Master purred the word. "Look up, and show me those teeth!"

Grimly, Frederick forced himself to look upwards, even as his head swum and blackness danced before his eyes. He forced his lips back over his teeth, a rictus of a grin plastered across his features as he defiantly met Reinicke's gaze. Finally, he was done, scrambling back to his feet as he retrieved his weapon. Dizziness plaguing his every movement, the adept swayed in place for a moment before speaking up.

"Thank you, Master." He spat. He felt no gratitude, no positive feeling for the Master at all, only grim determination to persevere in spite of the challenges Reinicke would put before him. Reinicke, meanwhile, only smirked again at hearing the words, a flash of triumph in his eyes.

"Excellent." He rubbed his palms together. "Now, with that out of the way, let's begin. For starters, we'll cover how to hold a sword properly. Too many times I see folk waving swords around like they're a child's plaything, limp in the wrist, loose in the palm." He waggled the sword loosely in one hand, the blade waving wildly through the air. "Take a firm hold of the hilt, just below the crossguard, with your leading hand. Grip it firmly, but not too tightly, and place your thumb over the cross guard so that you touch the flat of the blade with your thumb-tip. This will help you hold the blade steady, guide the edge into a proper cut, and give you a little more strength when locking blades with an opponent." His blade sliced through the air, a low whistle escaping from it as it moved. "Your main hand is the foundation for every motion you make with the sword. It makes the connection between you and the blade, and guides it's every move."

Reinicke moved the sword through the air a few more times to demonstrate his control over the weapon, the occasional flourish wowing his students. Frederick had to marvel over the natural way that the Witcher turned a simple piece of metal into such an elegant extension of himself, each subtle shift as easy for him as breathing. Certainly the heavy blade sitting in the adept's own hand felt clumsy and awkward in comparison. Glancing up from the weapon, Reinicke raised his free hand, palm opening and closing.

"Your off-hand sits closer to or even over the pommel." He clasped the lower part of the hilt, fingers curling around the curved lump of metal at the base of the hilt. "Use your palm to push on the pommel, and this will serve to guide the point of your sword. Push down to raise it up, and pull back to lower it."

The sword bobbed back and forth, tip rising and falling under the Witcher's guidance. Again, he flourished, the blade driving exactly where he intended.

"You need to have a firm grip of the hilt, but not too tight." Reinicke turned, allowing the Nightsabers to view his hands side-on. "If you hold on too tightly, your blade becomes unresponsive, awkward. We call this a 'dead' grip. You need a 'live' grip, which is flexible, but firm, and can take a hit from an enemy's sword without breaking or straining your hands too much."

Again his fingers flexed, showing how his sword moved a little, but not so much as to render him defenceless. Frederick was put in mind of a tree, bowing in the breeze. Branches that would hold fast and remain rigid would eventually crack and snap, while supple green ones would bend and flex to remain whole. His thoughts snapped back to the lesson as Reinicke resumed his instruction.

"Just as important as your grip on the sword is the positioning of your feet. Keep them about as far apart as your shoulders, and keep your weight roughly balanced between them, a little more weight on the foot you put in front." He took up a position with his left leg forward, sword shifting to the right as he rotated his hips a little. "Bend your knees, but make sure you have plenty of strength in your structure. Enough flexibility to stay mobile, but not so that you'd collapse under a powerful strike."

He bounced a little, remaining light on his feet as he flexed his knees a little. A gesture prompted the Nightsabers to follow his lead, all adopting the pose with varying levels of success. Reinicke moved, stalking between the students. His weapon moved about between them, nudging an awkwardly protruding elbow or pushing an ankle back into line. He paused in front of Frederick, appraising the adept's stance. The tip of his blade tapped Frederick in the small of his back, whickering around to touch his shoulder.

"Back straight, and don't slouch so much."

Frederick nodded, doing his best to follow the instructions. After a moment, Reinicke shrugged, seemingly satisfied. He eased his way back to stand before the group. Turning back to face them, he moved his weapon through the air again, tracing a broad circle around himself.

"There is a sphere around yourself that you control, reaching out as far as the tip of your sword will stretch. This is the area you threaten, and moves as you move. So it's important to move your feet with each attack, co-ordinate your movements to give yourself total control over your personal space." He took a powerful step forward, sword slashing down at the same time. He slashed, then backstepped, then slashed again, repeating the motion slowly for his students. He nodded to them. "Now you. Step forward with the foot on the side you are attacking from. Use the wrong foot, and your cut will be weak, awkward."

The adepts obeyed, chopping through the air as they stepped forward. Some grunted as they moved, others were silent as their expressions creased in intense concentration. Again, Reinicke patrolled up and down in front of the Nightsabers, watching their every move with careful eyes. As he did so, he offered criticisms and encouragement in equal measures.

"Smooth motions, make sure you are cutting with the edge of your blade, not the flat! Keep your back straight, and rotate your hips as you step. Don't stand on the balls of your feet, keep your feet placed fully on the ground!"

Finally, after several minutes of practicing, the Witcher seemed to be content with their form.

"Good start!" He nodded. "Some of you need to work on your form, but you're all getting a good grasp of the basics. Let's do something to help you work on your flexibility and co-ordination. Partner up."

The Nightsabers quickly did so, Frederick soon finding himself standing opposite Hilda, the Skelliger hefting her training weapon with practiced ease, more used to such things than almost anyone else of the Nightsabers. Reinicke continued to pace, head bowed as he walked.

"If you're going to learn to wield a sword, you need to learn to dodge one. In your pairs, one of you should take a swing at the other. Learn to bob and weave, duck and dodge. Don't back away from your opponent, stay within their area of threat, focus on moving around their attacks."

The Nightsabers all quietly nodded, turning to face their partners. Frederick turned to Hilda. The Skelliger raised a questioning eyebrow.

"So who is going to attack first?" She asked.

"Well, it would only be courteous for me to let the lady choose." Frederick flashed Hilda a mischevious smirk. "What would you rather, my Lady?"

Hilda's face darkened as her eyes flashed dangerously. Red lips peeled back from gleaming white teeth in a threatening grin that put Reinicke's to shame.

"You know what? I think I'll attack first." She muttered. "So polite of you to grant me the decision, Scholar."

Before Frederick could respond, the Skelliger raised her blade, assuming a ready stance and allowing the former mage's apprentice to realise the lapse in judgement he had made in irking the islander. As the training sword whistled through the air on its first attack, he found time for only two words.

"Oh, shit..."


	32. Chapter 32- Fencing

Pain.

Every inch of Frederick's body ached from countless bruises, his gambeson providing scant protection from Hilda's attacks. In spite of the good-natured jesting behind the jibes that darted back and forth between the Skelliger and the Scholar, Hilda's attacks were still fierce, not holding back in the slightest. When it was Frederick's turn to attack, his doughy frame and slow reflexes allowed the islander to easily dance around his weapon, so he had barely landed any hits.

Finally, Reinicke called a halt to the drill, summoning the students to gather around once more. When he noticed the Witcher counting under his breath, Frederick put on a swift burst of speed, ensuring he was not the last to fall in line. He had no intention of being the slowest again, and was all too happy when the Master picked out someone else, this time Morold.

"You." He nodded. "Your turn. Twenty push-ups. Hurry now!"

Morold groaned, sinking onto all fours with a weary sigh. In response, Reinicke's eyebrow rose with a questioning glance.

"Why the long face, adept? Are you tired already?" He pouted. "But push-ups are fun! Come on, let me see a smile!"

Morold's face twisted into a pale imitation of a smile as he strained through the exercise.

"Come, now! That's barely a smile." Reinicke's eyes gleamed wickedly. "Let me see those teeth! I don't think you really appreciate these push-ups. How about ten more, just to teach you how much fun they can be?"

Morold's eyes bulged at the Master's words, but he managed to keep from groaning outwardly, instead focusing furiously on the exercise. As he finished, standing up and thanking the Witcher through teeth clamped tightly together, Reinicke clapped his hands in delight, gesturing for the young man to join his friends once more. Eventually, all of the Nightsabers were lined up again, and Reinicke moved on to the next part of his lesson.

"So now that you know how to move around, let's cover some basic stances. First up is the Plough, probably the most common stance."

He shifted his weight, moving his left foot forward as his right pushed into the ground firmly. Gripping the hilt of his weapon strongly, his hands moved slightly to the right as he twisted his hips, keeping his blade parallel with the centre of his body. The blade remained out in front of him, aiming towards an imaginary opponent, but his hands tucked in closer to his centre. The hilt of the blade hovered at about waist height, while the tip jabbed into the air roughly level with the Witcher's eyes. Once he'd assumed the stance, the Witcher pulsed with contained energy, like an arrow drawn on a taut bowstring. A moment's energy would be all it would take to unleash a devastating attack from even such a basic stance. Reinicke glanced over his shoulder to his students.

"Pay attention to how I move my hands and feet. My weight is evenly balanced, and I can easily pivot to have one foot or the other in front. If I step forward, I move like this..."

He stepped, right foot moving forward. His body swivelled, a smooth, circular motion matched by his hands shifting to the left, hips turning with the blade to keep it parallel. As he stepped, the Witcher flowed from one foot to the other, like water snaking its way across the ground, never harsh, never awkward. Not for even an instant did he lose any of the stored power in his poise, blade ever ready to strike.

"Master how to step with your blade while keeping your stance intact, and you can control the battle, keeping your guard up at all times." He spun, making the same smooth, elegant steps to move back to where he had started, then turning to face his adepts. "This guard allows you to easily strike or defend from almost any angle. You can quickly and simply move your blade to any of the four quarters, the four main directions from which you can attack."

His sword moved, cutting in a long, overarm arc, swooping low to cut across and up from knee height, then swinging back to slice through the air at neck height, showing how fluidly he could move from one corner of his body to another.

"Always lead with your sword, but move your body with it. Never move your body first, because then you are moving yourself into harm's way without protecting yourself, and never hold your body back, otherwise you end up off-balance, and your strike loses its power." He straightened, sword twirling in an elaborate loop until the blade tucked safely under his arm. "Now, let's see you all step into the stance. Practice stepping forward and back, keeping your stance intact and the right balance of strength and flexibility to your movements."

The Nightsabers quickly followed their instructor's directions, all slipping into the 'Plough' stance with varying degrees of success. Reinicke paced up and down the line, inspecting each student's poise and footwork with a critical eye. He paused in front of Darren, eyeing the adept critically as he stepped back and forth, doing his best to mimic the Witcher's movements. Finally, the Master shook his head, having identified the problem.

"You're stepping forward with your body first, leaving your blade behind. Move with the weapon, but make sure that you lead with it, not the other way around." He grabbed the adept's sword, pulling it into position. "Your weapon is the only thing which stands between you and your enemy. So what is the point of putting it behind you for any reason?"

Reinicke stepped back, watching them all carefully once more before nodding, seemingly satisfied.

"Good enough for now. Some of you will need a bit more practice, but you're not completely hopeless. Now, let's move on to another guard, the Fool."

He posed once more, this time lowering his blade. The hilt still hovered around his centre, parallel with his hips, while the tip dropped to point at the ground.

"This is what they call a 'Fool's guard'. The question is, who is the fool? You, or your opponent? Some may say that you are the fool for leaving yourself open and undefended, but in truth you are only pretending to be a fool by lowering your blade, and they are the true fools for believing that and assuming, because you have lowered your weapon, that you are not a threat..." The Witcher paused, nodding to Cyrus. "You, step forward. Yes, you. Good, now..."

The Master dropped back into the stance, a sharp gleam in his eyes.

"Attack me."

"What?" Cyrus seemed surprised by the request, weapon jerking a little in his hands as he moved uncertainly, hesitant to attack the seasoned monster hunter.

"You heard me. Attack me, or I will make you defend yourself. Believe me, monsters out on the Path will not be so generous as to give you a choice."

Reinicke's tone was flat, dead calm, but beneath the purr was a flash of silver, the gleam of wicked fangs bared. It would not be wise to try his patience. Cyrus, still hesitant, raised his blade, and swung, a heavy overarm slash.

The Witcher's weapon moved blindingly fast, hands rising to about level with his shoulders while the blade remained aimed at the ground. He met Cyrus' incoming weapon with ease, the two swords clashing with a loud clang before the adept's weapon slid along the more experienced swordsman's, cast easily to the side. With barely a flicker of emotion, Reinicke returned to the starting point of his stance, turning his head to address the rest of the group.

"You see how fast I can respond to his attack, and raise my own in defence? The Fool's guard gives me leverage on my blade to respond quickly and powerfully, and I can strike from unexpected directions." He looked back to Cyrus. "We'll talk about the way you swing your sword later, adept. For now, let's try again."

Cyrus struck again, this time a horizontal swing that once again was driven aside, the Witcher knocking the incoming blade up high over his head, retaliating with a quick thrust that put his own sword-tip directly over the young student's chest, about where the heart would be.

"And now you're dead." Reinicke grinned. "Starting low gives me a chance to build a lot of speed, which I can then use to direct your blade away and leave you open to a counterattack." He stepped back. "Again, try to use all four quarters, see how the stance defends against each one. Then, we'll go over how to attack using the Fool's guard..."

~o~0~o~

Frederick's arms were starting to cramp up from the repeated movements, time and again swinging with the sword, first using the Plough, then the Fool, then the Plough again. Reinicke kept drilling the essential motions over and over, until some of the adepts began to slip in and out of the stances as though they were second nature. Frederick was not one of those students, instead still moving all too clumsily, his fingers and hands refusing to bend as he needed them to. As Reinicke squared up to show the class another stance, it was all Frederick could do not to groan wearily. Instead, he forced his focus back to the Master before him.

"The Hawk stance," Reinicke explained, raising his sword up into the air, his hands hovering just above his head as the weapon tilted back behind him, although still aiming upwards. The weight of the weapon pulled at his arms, but he did not allow it to dip too low. "This is a slightly odd stance. You're leaving your body open to attack, but you can make quick, powerful strikes. This forces your opponent to make a choice. They can attack you, and land a hit to your body, but they will most likely take a blow to the head, neck or shoulders. Sure, they can make you bleed, but if you split their skull in the process, they're probably not going to be able to get up from that. You can be threatening enough to force them to defend. If they choose to defend, the weight of your sword alone can strike a powerful blow that could make their defences crumble. It's a risky stance, but it has its good points. Now, let's-"

The Witcher trailed off, his attention drawn by something behind the students. The Nightsabers turned to see a slight figure prancing across the training grounds, easily recognised as the Godling, Tipsy.

Frederick realised it had been a while since he had seen the tiny creature, although she was a near constant presence around the castle in some way or another. An echoing childish song in the gallery of the great hall, a string of muddy footprints in the library, much to the dismay of Master Jana, or a few uprooted plants in the castle's small gardens, to the constant annoyance of Bertram, somehow Tipsy always made her presence known, as if some kind of spell of youthful mischief and joy draped across the ancient palace.

The Godling carried a jug in each hand, brimming with water. As she skipped along, humming the tune to a song that Frederick recognised as one of the more ribald ones that some of the Witchers would sing in the Tavern of an evening, the clear liquid in the jugs splashed over the sides, spattering across the dirt at her feet with merry abandon. As the young student watched the droplets burst against the soil, his mouth turned dry as dust, and he realised for the first time just how long it had been, standing out here in the sunshine, since he had last eaten or drunk anything. His tongue rasped over cracked lips.

"Hello, Witchers!" The mysterious little Tipsy called out joyously, bringing a smile to the faces of almost everyone present. "I brought you something to drink! I thought maybe you might need it, with the sun so high and the grass so warm!"

She danced into the midst of the group of students, swinging the jugs around with such abandon that some of the Nightsabers feared she might spill all the precious water inside, eliciting a few nervous cringes. She proffered one of the jugs to Morold, a large glob of water slumping over the side and slapping onto the student's breeks, leaving several large wet stains. The Godling laughed as the adept leapt back, wiping at himself awkwardly.

"Now you can all cool off, and I helped!" She beamed exuberantly, her eagerness infectious as she plopped the jugs down on the ground, before running away. As she bounced across the grass once more, she seemed to trip over her own feet, tumbling towards the ground, but an agile twist of her body put her hands beneath herself, allowing her to spin into a fast cartwheel, a shining bundle of energy sprinting across the training grounds. Then, just as quickly as she had arrived, the little creature was gone, leaving in her wake a trail of smiling, chuckling faces.

Reinicke shook his head at the retreating Godling, not smiling, but not upset, either.

"Godlings..." He muttered. "It's a bad idea, allowing one to stick around like that." He turned to look at the jugs. "Still, it was good of her to bring us some water. At least that's something." His expression sharpened, a glimmer of suspicion in his eyes. "Unless... you!"

He pointed at Merinea, who jumped at the sudden attention.

"Yes, you! Come here and take a drink."

Awkwardly, the student stepped forward, obediently doing as the Witcher said. All of the students fell silent as the young woman took a long, deep draw from one of the jugs. Reinicke watched her closely, eyes narrowed. As she finished, placing the jug back on the ground, his eyebrow rose inquisitively.

"Is it okay?" The suspicion was heavy in his voice. Merinea just nodded, still a little confused, but finally Reinicke relaxed. "Good. She didn't piss in it this time. Didn't want to go through that again."

The Witcher turned to face the rest of the class, either oblivious to or blatantly ignoring Merinea's shocked expression at what he had forced her to risk on his behalf. Reinicke rubbed his hands together as a grin split his features once more.

"I reckon we've all earned ourselves a break. Get some water, find a shady spot to rest, and don't talk too loud! I don't like being woken up before I am ready..."


	33. Chapter 33- The Temerian Captain

The sun had begun to sink into the second half of its journey across the sky, the raw heat of midday slipping past the Nightsabers as they lounged in the shade of one of the few trees that dotted the training ground, glad of the rest. Laid up against the trunk of the tree, exactly where they had found him earlier in the morning, Reinicke lay with his hat draped over his face once more, silent as he dozed, seemingly oblivious to the world around himself. His students, meanwhile, sat and talked among themselves, some sprawled out on the grass, others sitting cross-legged in varying meditative poses. Ida and Cyrus, as ever, remained close to one another, while Ragodar had picked up a training weapon, swinging it around in a few moves as he practiced the morning's stances. Frederick, meanwhile, had almost slipped into a doze, the warmth of the afternoon flooding his limbs as he struggled not to fall back on the grass and sleep.

"What's wrong, Hilda?" Krenai's question grabbed the attention of the former mage's apprentice, dragging him back to the here and now. He opened his eyes to see the Skelliger pulling blades of grass from the soil, tearing them apart between her fingers distractedly. She looked up at the Nilfgaardian's question, chewing her lip ponderously.

"I was thinking about our first hunt." She explained, her voice a little awkward as she picked her words carefully. "About when we encountered those- the Witchers we found by that fire."

The group fell silent, a sober air dropping across the gathered group as their minds turned back to those pitiful creatures, their distorted faces, their cries of pain and rage, their broken stares. The quiet moment stretched between the adepts, before Hilda finally spoke up again.

"What do you think happened to them?" She asked. "Do you think they found somewhere to go? A safe place to recover from what Meinard did to them?"

"There's no recovery from what was done to them." All the students turned at Reinicke's words to see the Witcher looking at them from under the brim of his hat, half-closed eyes glimmering with a steely, unreadable light. "The Trials we Witchers go through is already damaging enough. What Meinard came up with is far worse. They'll be forever broken, lost to madness as their bodies keep on breaking down."

He grunted, pressing his palms into the dirt as he lifted himself up and away from the tree, standing to his full, impressive height. His expression remained still, stony, as he regarded the adepts, but Frederick thought he caught the faintest flicker of a disapproving frown in the Master's features.

"That's why I went back out into the woods after you came back to the castle. Toril told me about the experiments you left running loose, so I hunted them down and ended their suffering."

"You... killed them?" Colin asked, disbelieving.

"It's what you should have done." The Nightsabers were surprised at the harsh edge to the normally laid back Witcher's voice. "Those creatures were a threat, not just to you, but to every peasant within a day's ride of this castle. It was only a matter of time before they lost all sense of control and rampaged through a village, or worse. It was your duty to take care of the problem and take them out, but you let your compassion get in the way."

"They were Witchers!" Darren protested. "Your brothers and sisters! How can you just give up on them and sentence them to death like that?"

"They weren't Witchers, not any more." Reinicke replied coldly. "They stopped being any kin of mine when they volunteered for those procedures."

He turned, picking up his blade. He walked past the adepts, out from under the boughs of the tree, coming to a halt as he raised his weapon to face off against an invisible foe, slashing at the air as he continued speaking. Frederick got the sense that, with every swing, the Witcher was unleashing a burst of frustrated energy, his attacks a little more energetic, unrefined than usual.

"You have a duty to destroy monsters like that." He grunted, jabbing at his unseen foe before parrying an imaginary attack. "Don't let your feelings get in the way, do the job put before you! That's what Witchers do!" He spun, launching an attack that surely would have decapitated any enemy before him, before turning to face his class once more. "So yes, I killed them. Every last one. And I would do it again, every time I was asked. You'll understand, one day. Maybe after the Trials, or maybe sooner, if fate has a different plan in mind for you."

The Nightsabers watched the Master carefully, taking in every word. Frederick felt a knot of worry at Reinicke's words, especially the ominous comment on fate. He couldn't help but feel that the Witcher's words would someday come back to haunt the adepts, although he couldn't say how he knew. Around him, the other students all lowered their heads.

"Fucking Meinard." Darren spat under his breath. "We should just kill the bastard and be done with it."

Nobody tried to argue with the bold adept. Even Frederick, whose conscience pricked him upon hearing the words, held his tongue, unable to completely disagree. Reinicke, seeing the dour mood falling across his students, sighed.

"This is neither the time nor the place for this." He grunted. "Come on, let's get back to our lesson."

The lanky-framed Witcher moved further out onto the training field, his class following closely behind. Pausing a moment, Reinicke turned to face his class.

"The next stance is a little tricky. It's called the Ox, and it goes a little like this..."

The Master dropped into a ready stance, hands twisting as his knees bent. The sword rose in his grip, this time moving to the side, away from his foremost foot and roughly lining up with his other leg and shoulder. The hilt rose to about eye level, his grasp turning the blade until it pointed straight out in front of him, almost horizontal. His entire body twisted around the stance, coiling like a viper as he levelled the point of his sword ahead of his face. The end result was a very energetic pose, aggressive, potent. There could be no doubt that the Witcher was ready for any incoming attack, and already planning his own assault on potential enemies.

"The Ox is a great stance for attacking." Reinicke explained. "You're threatening your enemy's head and neck, and can easily jab forward..." He demonstrated. "Slash down..." Again he lunged forward, blade whistling through the air. "Or pull it back to go for an upward slash."

Once more he showed the attack, weapon cutting a wicked arc through the air. Without pausing for breath, the Witcher went through the attacks once again before returning to his starting position.

"But one of the most useful things to remember about the Ox," He continued, a wry grin on his face. "Is that she has two horns."

He stepped forward, shifting from his right to his left foot. As he did so, the blade whipped over his head, spinning almost a complete circle as his hands moved across in front of him, until he stepped into an exact mirror copy of his opening stance, blade coming to a halt pointing in the same direction.

"This makes the stance excellent for advancing across the battlefield while keeping the pressure on your opponent, forcing them to defend themselves rather than attack you." He stepped again, and again, each time making the blade streak around to hover over each shoulder, the Master carving a sinuous route across the field. He then turned, retracing his steps with lithe, circular steps, each foot moving deliberately to emphasise the art of his motions. "Like with the other stances, we need to watch our footwork, and step in time with our blade. We do not want our blade to be pointing backwards when we choose to move our body forwards, so time your movements carefully, focus on keeping yourself protected while still advancing and keeping the pressure on your opponent." He stopped, sword now hovering over his right shoulder. "Let's see you try it. Follow my lead, and step with me."

The Nightsabers obliged, forming up in something resembling a line and copying the Master's movements. Ragodar soon picked up the subtleties of the stance, earning a few words of praise from the Witcher.

"Good poise! Nice tension in the arms and legs, but you need to work on the timing a bit more. Always lead with the blade, keep it behind your body for as little time as possible! Your foes won't wait for you to bring your sword to bear, you have to be ready to defend yourself at all times."

Under Reinicke's experienced eye, soon all of the class were stepping back and forth with some measure of ability, even the breathless Frederick. The Witcher nodded as he watched his students with a little pride in his grin.

"Well, you're not entirely hopeless..." He admitted. "It's a challenging stance to perfect, but you've got an understanding of the basics. You'll need to practice every day, keep sharpening your skills. Your reflexes and muscles are just like any blade, they need maintaining to be kept in the best possible condition if they're going to be any use to you in a fight."

The Witcher turned and stalked back to the tree, where his selection of weapons lay waiting. After a moment's thought, he reached down and picked up a shield.

"Now that you know how to wave a sword around, let's move on to something a little more advanced. There are not a lot of monsters that will use shields, but you will still find some situations where you will need to know how to work around one. Let's cover how to attack an enemy bearing a shield." He nodded to Ragodar. "You, take up a shield."

Stepping forward, the Redanian quickly obeyed the Witcher's order, finding himself a shield with a red and black pattern. Twirling his sword, Ragodar stepped up to face Reinicke, shield in his left hand. The young man dropped into a combat stance, blade at the ready. Reinicke, meanwhile, glanced to the rest of the class, adopting a similar stance.

"Now, your friend here has a very obvious problem. If he tries to attack me, I can block very easily with my shield. How can he get my shield out of the way?"

"Try kicking the shield!" Darren shouted out.

"Kick the shield?" Reinicke asked incredulously. "Somebody kick the idiot!"

Darren's face turned a deep shade of scarlet as the Nightsabers around him stifled their laughter, Reinicke shaking his head as he turned back to Ragodar.

"No, what you need to do, is turn the shield against your enemy. Best way to do this is make them block their own vision. Watch this." He nodded to his opponent. "Use your shield to defend against my attack."

The Witcher lashed out with his sword, an exaggerated overarm attack aimed at Ragodar's head. The Redanian responded by raising his shield to protect himself. The incoming blade struck the shield with a wooden thunk, and the Witcher paused.

"See how he has fallen into my trap?" The Master indicated Ragodar's stance. "He's raised his shield, but now his lower half is exposed, and he cannot see me."

He drew his blade back and, with a lightning-fast twist, the weapon slashed across Ragodar's knees, the flat of the blade slapping the adept loudly as he stumbled back.

"I can perform a follow-up attack, and he doesn't have time to recover and see where it is coming from." Reinicke explained. "Sure, probably not as effective as attacking the head, but you can still cause the other guy a lot of trouble. Take his legs out from under him, or maybe even cut his guts open, if he raises his shield too much. The key thing is to get him to move his defence, then exploit the opening he has unwittingly created. You're misleading him, outsmarting him. Master that, and you'll be able to get past your enemy's defences with ease."

Reinicke demonstrated the move a few more times, trying a few different angles of attack, each time manipulating Ragodar into lifting his shield and compromising his defence in some way or another. Suddenly, a light-hearted, slightly scornful chuckle echoed across the class, drawing the attention of the Witcher and the Nightsabers.

The whole class turned to the source of the noise, realising that they were no longer alone. At the base of the tree, two people whom Frederick recognised as members of the Temerian Blue Stripe detachment assigned to the castle watched the adepts with equal parts interest and amusement. One, a somewhat tall man with a clean-shaven face and a serious expression, hefted one of the training swords in his grasp, judging its weight with a critical eye, while the other one managed only to take Frederick's breath away.

Slight, elegant, refined, Captain Mia was a woman who gained with attention of all men and most women that she came across. Fair hair cut short so as to not get in her eyes, the young woman didn't have the kind of hardened, grizzled features you'd expect on a career soldier. Rather, gleaming eyes shone out from a face lacking any of the scars or hard lines her profession would normally bestow. Her uniform, a rich blue waistcoat over cream shirt and a complimenting pair of brown close-fitting breeches with blue stripes running down the length of the thighs. The overall effect was something that Frederick, and many of the Nightsabers besides, found quite entrancing. The Captain leaned against the bole of the tree, watching the students with a sardonic smile on her features.

"I'd like to see your students try that against one of my units." She smirked. "Witcher swords would be no use against a real Temerian shieldwall."

"Captain." Reinicke's voice positively dripped with honey. "So good to see you today. Perhaps you'd like to join us in our lesson? I could use a few more targets."

The Captain's smile grew a little sharper, her eyes flashing.

"Sure, why not? I was needing a chance to unwind. Showing these adepts of yours a thing or two might be just the thing I was needing..."

Soon enough, Frederick found himself sparring with the Captain, the adept a little at a loss when confronted by her. He was trying to focus on replicating Reinicke's instructions, but he kept finding himself distracted, unable to draw himself away from looking into the soldier's eyes. He shook his head, trying to focus once more on Mia's stance, determined to succeed in striking the soldier at least once. As she lunged to attack, he countered, taking a swing at her head. His sword struck her shield, and with an unusual turn of speed, he managed to find his way around her defence, landing a light touch on her calf. The Captain stepped back, nodding her head as she shifted her grip on her sword.

"Good! You're learning." She lifted her sword, jerking her hand towards her face. "You're looking me in the eyes, rather than watching my sword. That's good. Allows you to anticipate my attacks."

"Uh... yeah!" Frederick jumped on the explanation, glad she didn't suspect the truth as he felt his cheeks flushing a little. "That's exactly what I was doing! Definitely!"

The Captain flashed a smile, lowering her weapon.

"That should be enough for today. I think your Master is ready to call it a night. Keep practicing, adept. You've got some potential, if you put in the effort."

"Thank you, my Lady." Frederick sputtered. Mia responded with another smile.

"I'm no lady. Please, call me Mia."

The Captain turned on her heel, marching away. Behind her, Frederick struggled to regain his composure, releasing a tense breath as he relaxed.

~o~0~o~

The Great Hall buzzed with activity, the evening's meal well underway. Adepts hunched over their meals, sharing tales of their day's exploits, joking and laughing. Somewhere in the crowd, a bard was singing some kind of song about lilacs and berries. Elsewhere, a game of dice was being played, although it was unclear whether the stakes involved coin, dignity, or something else.

In one corner of the hall, the Nightsabers clustered around a table together. Darren sat at the furthest end of the table, deep in conversation with Crescentia, the bard in red. At the other end of the table, Njall sat with Elinor in his lap, the pair conversing in depth with several other adepts. Frederick, meanwhile, sat to one side, pensively toying with the food before himself, lost in thought. Images kept arising in his mind, thoughts of Meinard's experiments, facing a brutal fate at the end of Reinicke's sword. Thoughts of the Blue Stripes out in the woods, hunting Elves, Dirk's words of Witchers soon hunting them echoing through his mind. Thoughts of the Trials that the adepts were to face in the near future, the Masters' faces growing more and more grim by the day as they warned of them. Frederick vanished into a maze of troubling thoughts, his meal all but forgotten before him.

A sudden, sharp cry tore through the hall, all conversation stopping instantly as every head turned to find the source of the noise. Even Frederick, preoccupied as he was, snapped out of his reverie. He looked up to see Bertram, standing at the top of the steps leading down into the hall. The Wolf School's steward's face contorted with a combination of outrage and surprise as a mixture of oil, vegetables and honey dribbled down over the crown of his head, streaming down over his face. Close by to one side, Hilda stood clutching a couple of bowls, a somewhat guilty look on her face. Behind them both, the retreating back of Tipsy could be seen, the Godling bolting as fast as her legs would carry her, her cackling laughter trailing behind her. All was silent in the hall as Bertram's face slowly turned a deeper and deeper shade of beetroot.

"Somebody stop that thing!" He fumed, an accusing finger pointing after the fleeing Tipsy.

Bertram, red-faced, stalked out of the hall, wiping the mess from his head with a disgusted grunt. Behind him, the entire hall remained silent for just a moment longer, before all present erupted into raucous laughter. Even Frederick found himself momentarily breaking into a smile as he shook his head, his troubles briefly forgotten. A quick movement at his side drew his attention just as Hilda sat down, guilty look still donning her features. Frederick nodded to the Skelliger.

"My Lady, still getting into trouble, I see." He smirked.

"Quiet, you!" Hilda hissed, but the upward turn at the corner of her mouth contradicted her harsh tone. Frederick only smiled in return, going back to his food.


	34. Chapter 34- The Dream

Frederick awoke with a start, his head buzzing with a dull pain. How much mead had he drunk in the Tavern that night? Sitting up, he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to dismiss the ache through sheer force of will. He glanced around in the gloom, but couldn't see much of his bedroom, just pools of inky blackness. Odd.

Stiffness in his muscles begged him to remain in his bed, the sheets pulling at him temptingly as he flipped his feet over the edge and onto the floor. He was awake now, might as well find out what time it was, whether he'd need to begin his daily chores for Master Travis or if he had the lion's share of the night ahead of himself to go back to sleep. Maybe he could even slip out into the town, get some time to himself. He winced as bare feet met cold flagstone. The bed creaked and groaned loudly as he rose from it, stretching all the kinks out of his spine.

The sound was soft, a gnat's whisper, but in the stillness of the night it rang out loudly, the tinkle of breaking glass. Frederick's ears pricked at the noise, turning to find its source. Somewhere out in the hall. Quickly, not even bothering to look for his boots, the young adept went to investigate.

The hall outside his room was dark, a cool breeze running down its length. Tapestries on the walls billowed heavily, flapping against the walls behind them. The young man moved towards one of the windows, leaning his head out to take a breath of still night air. Outside, the town of Asheberg slumbered silently. Somewhere, an owl's wings fluttered through the night air, while rats scuttered and squealed quietly in the town's gutters.

The tiny sound echoed forth again, drawing Frederick's attention back inside. He turned, glancing down the hallway towards the heavy oaken door that marked the entrance to Master Travis' library. The faint rustle of movement was coming from behind the imposing door, stained black with the passing of decades, centuries. Curious, Frederick approached, cautiously turning the handle of the door with no issue. Normally, he would not be permitted to enter the library, save under Master Travis' supervision, and even then only to dust the shelves, sweep the floor, or bring the mage his meals as he pored over some ancient tome or another. Even so, no door in the mage's vast home was locked, not to Frederick. Almost no thief would be foolhardy enough to try and steal from the town's only magic user, and for those who were so dense, glyphs and wards laced the stones of the building to defend against such ill intent. The fates that met such individuals soon made the rounds, often enhanced by alehouse gossip, so attempts at theft remained few and far between.

The thought of what those charms and incantations might do to him running through his mind, Frederick was very cautious as he walked into the library, careful to keep his mind free of any thought of pilfering one of the many books inside. It was not an easy task. Ever since he had first learned to read, something Travis insisted on for all who passed through his service, the young orphan had craved a chance to peer into one of the musty, elaborate publications that adorned the hundreds of shelves within. Some, Travis claimed, dated back to before the time of Humanity, when the Elves had ruled the land. A couple, he claimed, had first been penned even before the Conjunction, in distant lands that the mage went so far as to declare were on entirely different worlds. Frederick's mind struggled to comprehend the idea, hungering for such knowledge. But, to the young lad's endless irritation, Travis hoarded all of the knowledge, the secrets, the words, all to himself. Whenever Frederick hoped that he might have a chance to study, to read a book at his Master's feet while Travis worked on some deep, unknowable truth of the universe, there was always something else that needed doing, an errand to run, ingredients to gather, glassware to polish. And yet, now, here he stood, in the midst of all this knowledge, everything he'd ever wanted within his reach, should he just extend his hand.

The youth quickly dispelled that thought, knowing that the guarding spells upon the library would sense his shifting intentions. Instead, he plunged deeper in amongst the shelves, heading towards the heart of the library.

There, at the centre of the mage's study, a grand desk carved from ancient wood sat, silent in the gloom. A single shaft of pale moonlight speared through a circular glass window far above, perfectly highlighting the desk in a precise circle of white luminance. Scrolls covered the surface of the desk, a handful of quills and a near-empty inkwell sitting to one side. On either side of the desk, a pair of bronze Griffins loomed, gazing down at its surface, as if reading whatever materials were taken out for study. Frederick was always unnerved by those metal creatures. Their carved eyes glinted with unreadable intelligence, and he always felt like they were acutely aware of his presence.

A book lay open on the desk. Odd. Frederick had never known Master Travis to leave a tome out like that, its delicate pages exposed. The mage was frightfully precise in his work, putting each and every thing back exactly where he desired it, the books of his library meticulously ordered by category, age and name, in that order. To leave a book sitting on his desk overnight was almost unthinkable to him. Unable to resist the mystery, Frederick stepped closer for a better look.

The book was ornate, red leather cover embossed with golden studs, a delicate lock cast in bronze to close it when the reader was finished. No key in sight, maybe Master Travis still carried it around with him. The pages inside were brittle, dry with age. Frederick had a hard time telling in the pale white moonlight, but he had no doubt the pages were yellowed from decades of time. Inside the book, the script was written in careful, elegant calligraphy, letters and words that Frederick had never seen before gleaming black in stark contrast to the pages themselves. Strange drawings of unusual geometric shapes littered the text, triangles looping in on themselves, circles within circles within circles, squares that seemed to squirm and move on the paper before Frederick's very eyes. Mere seconds was all it took for his head to begin to pound, eyes streaming from the strain of staring too long. He stepped back as dizziness threatened to overcome him. Carefully, he reached out to close the book.

Something stopped his hand. He couldn't say what, but some unseen will held him back from sealing the tome. Maybe it was his own curiosity, he couldn't tell. He frowned, his better judgement screaming at him to not give in to his own thirst for the forbidden. All the reason in the world, however, was for naught as the young man leaned in again, inexorably drawn back to the text.

Fingers traced across the foreign letters, following line upon line of unreadable, unknowable words. It was like nothing Frederick had seen in all his time with Master Travis, not even close to resembling the tongues of the Northern Realms, the Dwarves, or even the little smatterings of Ofieri, Gnomish and Elven that he had managed to pick up in his dealings. This was something entirely different.

Before the young man realised it, his lips began to move as he traced the text, muttering strange sounds that he could never have imagined uttering. Fear spiked in his gut, but he could not stop. Something invisible but unbreakable tethered him to the book, keeping his eyes fixed and his tongue moving. A strange, uncomfortable itch started in his fingertips, creeping back up to his hand, his arm, his shoulder, until it suddenly coursed through his body. The letters on the page began to glow.

"Ecthainne vena'an keirus thaillè beros..." The words were nonsense, and yet Frederick understood them perfectly, and inside his head, his mind screamed at his body to stop.

Sparks leapt from the page, surrounding his hands. A subtle shift in the air to one side drew the youngster's attention. Frederick's eyes flicked to the side, the stream of words coming from his mouth remaining unbroken.

The Griffins, standing watch over the desk, were moving. Slowly, as if awakening from a deep, deep sleep, their metal eyes blinked, and they turned to regard the man entrapped by the tome. Heads rotated with a thin metal shriek as beaks opened wide, sharp metal tongues flicking inside. One released a terrible, heart-stopping squawk, the reverberations of its metal chest giving the sound a fearsome echo. Terrified, Frederick wanted nothing more than to run away, to slam the book shut, turn and bolt from the accursed desk and the metal guardians standing watch over it.

The closest Griffin seemed to sense his fear, two clawed feet lunging to strike the top of the desk as it lifted itself up. Wings spread out from its back as its chest puffed out in an impressive display, another cry escaping from its chest. It's head darted forward, beak clacking a hair's breadth from Frederick's face. Fearful, the young man dodged back, tripping over his own feet to land on the floor with a loud slam. As he did so, his hand slipped away from the book, its grip finally releasing him, and the words halted mid-sentence.

There was a long, pregnant pause. Frederick's words still hung in the air, half-spoken. The book trembled with unspent energy, pages ruffling. Frederick felt the power the book had poured into him surge, uncertain of its direction, seeking an outlet. Finally, as it failed to find a way out into the world, it made one.

Frederick's skin glowed painfully bright, every inch of his body screaming with white fire. As the power surged out through his flesh, the aggressive bronze Griffin pounced from the desk, claws outstretched as it made to land a killing blow on the young man before it. The attack never landed, and neither did the Griffin. As it swooped in, Frederick's skin pulsed, and a wall of brilliant white light leapt from his body. The attacking Griffin was the first thing to be struck, the metal creature evaporating in the blinding light as easily as snow thrown into a blazing fire. The desk and the remaining Griffins were next, similarly disintegrated by the raw, untamed energy. Books, shelves, floorboards, stone walls, everything in the library faced a similar fate. At the heart of it all, screaming, agonised, almost driven past the limits of his senses, Frederick writhed as the energy continued to flow out of himself. His throat ached as he roared out his pain and suffering, but no relief was forthcoming. Finally, mercifully, his body gave out, his heart ceased to pump, and blackness filled his vision. In that single bright, unbearable moment, Frederick died.

~o~0~o~

The first thing to assail Frederick's senses was the heat. Scorching temperatures unlike anything he'd ever known filled his flesh, and he couldn't say for sure whether it was coming from his surroundings, or from within. Soon after that, his hearing returned, the crackle of burning flames all around him. The scent of smoke, ash and burnt meat filled his nostrils. As it did so, suddenly, memories of what had just happened flooded back. The flames, was it the library? He'd survived? What was that greasy smell that mingled with the smoke? Was it him?

Fear and panic snapped his eyes open wide, the young man awakening with a start. He sat bolt upright, eyes moving about wildly as he drew in a sudden, frantic breath. That breath caught in his throat, however, when he finally had a chance to take in his surroundings for just a moment.

Wherever he was, it certainly wasn't the library in Asheberg. Tall mountains clawed at the sky all around, pillars of black, shining stone like onyx, purple light running through them. The sky itself was a dark purple-blue, streaks of lightning ripping across it with alarming frequency. Below, plains of dry dust howled with untamed windstorms. Hundreds, thousands of tiny white lights flickered across it, flames no larger than that of a candle somehow existing with nothing to burn. Sometimes the lights would cluster, and bold streams of white energy would link these clusters together. Other times, a much brighter light would arise among them, the glow of those around them dimming in comparison.

Some of these brighter lights grew, and grew, and grew, until they towered over all the others, eventually taking on distinct shapes of their own. One soared over the plains, an owl of immense size with talons outstretched. Another took the guise of a mighty fish, moving sinuously through the world. Still others looked like a raven, a butterfly, a mighty tree, an enormous bear.

Frederick looked on in wonder, uncertain of what these shapes and lights might mean. He glanced around, then down at himself, coming to the sudden realisation that he, too, was glowing, just like the mighty figures, although nowhere near as brightly. Where his body should have been, a ghost of his self remained, crafted out of pure luminescence. Maybe this was the afterlife, then? When one died, they became a glowing being like this, taking on a shape of their choosing? But why, then, were some of the shapes so immense? The owl, for example, had a wingspan that almost spanned the entire width of the plains, while Frederick, as far as he could see, remained about the same size as he had been in life.

Frederick had almost no time for further thought, however, as the owl-creature suddenly swooped, dropping down upon a cluster of small lights. Talons ripped through the bundle of candles, scooping them up in a flash. Some of the small lights tried to flee, others flung themselves at the owl, and still others remained blissfully unaware of the approaching creature until they were scooped up. All, eventually, ended up within its talons. As Frederick watched, fascinated, the lights seemed to vanish, absorbed into the owl, and the larger creature grew further still. Frederick gazed on, mesmerised by the performance as the owl rose and swooped in again, grabbing and absorbing everything it came into contact with.

Frederick's observation was interrupted, however, as the ground beneath him trembled. Sudden, heavy footsteps grabbed the young man's attention, and he was forced to turn, the sight that awaited him paralysing him in shock for just a moment.

Another big light, this time in the shape of a man, towered over the plains. Even larger than the owl, this creature of light was immense beyond words, glowing with a fierce intensity. Somehow, in spite of being made of pure, unadulterated light, his eyes managed to gleam even brighter, the left like a miniature sun beaming out from his featureless face, a twisting, complex symbol encircling it. It strode across the plains in mighty steps, and wherever its feet fell, hundreds of smaller lights were absorbed, never to be seen again.

Almost as if sensing his scrutiny, the man-creature looked down at Frederick, glowing stare burning with rising intensity as it caught sight of the young man. In that gaze, Frederick sensed many things. Malevolence, disdain, arrogance, but above all else, that gaze hungered. Fear overcame Frederick, and he turned to run.

The plains shook as the man-creature pursued Frederick, each step covering miles as Frederick's own barely accounted for a few feet. In seconds, the young man was overtaken, and a gigantic hand the size of a building swooped down, grabbing hold of Frederick and lifting him into the air.

Frederick squirmed in the giant's grasp, the heat of the being's fierce light tormenting him as he fought to break free. Slowly, inexorably, he was raised up until he hovered before the man-creature's face, those dreadful glowing eyes piercing into him. Frederick tried to scream, but his body of light had no mouth, no throat, so instead all he could do was struggle, fighting against the grip that held him steady. The gigantic being inspected him for a short moment, eyes narrowing. Then, with barely a movement of its wrist, it drew Frederick in, closer and closer to where its mouth should have been. Frederick's mind, trapped within the body of light that was being consumed, screamed out in terror and pain. The last things he saw, just as darkness returned and every scrap of his essence was dissolved and destroyed, were those terrible gleaming eyes, one encircled by a strange symbol he couldn't understand.

~o~0~o~

Frederick awoke with a start, sweat pouring down his face as he fought for breath, he sat bolt upright, eyes wide open as he glanced about in a panic.

"Hey- hey! Calm down!" Next to his bed, Master Dirk crouched, keeping his voice to a whisper as he tried to calm the adept. "Take it easy!"

Frederick fought to draw in a few calm breaths, slowly stilling his heart as the Witcher watched him carefully. The Master's impassive expression suggested to Fredrick that an adept having a nightmare was an all too common occurrence within the castle's walls. Eventually, the young Nightsaber was calm, and nodded his thanks to Dirk. The Witcher, keeping his voice to a low whisper, leaned in close so as to not be overheard.

"We have need of a few adepts with magical talents for a ritual. It's complicated, and dangerous, and needs to be done in secret. Find your friends, the Skelliger and the Child of Destiny, and meet myself and Master Vreni in the courtyard in half an hour. Bring your medallions, and tell no one else, understood?"

Still groggy and confused from the nightmare, Frederick could only nod slowly, at which the Witcher stood, chewing his lip thoughtfully. Dirk moved to leave, but then paused.

"Take a drink to calm your nerves if you need to, adept, but keep your mind clear. Whatever was troubling you tonight, leave it behind once you step out to meet us. We'll need your focus and attention during the ritual."

With those few, curt words, as close as any Witcher in the castle had come to showing actual compassion and emotion in Frederick's experience, the Master left, and the adept sagged back on his bed, mind still reeling. He took another long, deep breath, trying to steady himself.

It had been a long time since he'd had that dream, seen those visions. The same images and creatures he had seen after the spell had sent him to the verge of death back in Asheberg. It was always the same sequence, showing the moments leading up to him inadvertently casting the spell, the explosion, and then the plain with the strange light-creatures. After he'd been healed of the aftereffects of the spell, he'd tried to explain the dreams to his old master. Travis had dismissed it as a simple side effect of the potions he'd been given, or possibly of having so much magic flow through his body at once, but Frederick couldn't put aside the notion that they meant something, whether it was a dire warning or some other message, he couldn't tell. And now the dream had returned, for the first time since he'd come to Kaer Marter. Why? He couldn't even begin to guess.

Sighing, Frederick sat up on his bed again, twisting to escape from beneath sweat-soaked sheets. He had no time to focus on that right now. He needed to think about whatever it was that Dirk needed of him. Finding his boots, the young Nightsaber quickly dressed and headed out, seeking Hilda and Darren.


	35. Chapter 35- Reinmar

Frederick stepped out into the castle's courtyard, a bleary eyed Darren and Hilda close behind him. The cool night air soon banished the last few cobwebs of sleep from the young adept's mind, a slight shiver making him envy the cloak that his Skelliger friend had hurriedly thrown across her shoulders.

The moon hung motionless in an almost entirely empty night sky, a scant few scraps of cloud dashing towards the horizon as if eager to escape the cold air. Stars gleamed faintly, but dimmed in comparison to the brightness of the full moon.

Kaer Marter itself was almost silent, windows black, a handful of wisps of mist teasing at the ancient stones. Around the ancient building, the forest was unnaturally silent, not even the chirp of insects or the flutter of a bat's wings to disturb the peace.

In the centre of the courtyard, a small crowd had gathered, a mixture of adepts, Witchers and, Frederick noted with more than a little surprise, the Blue Stripe officers who had come to the castle alongside the Wolf School entourage. Frederick caught sight of Captain Mia, watching the Witchers with impassive eyes, beside her standing her commander, a stern man the young adept had learned was named Hatzel.

Most of the adepts stood in silence, uncomfortably waiting for some unknown command, but a small group seemed to be standing separately, and one of their number was currently locked in a debate with Masters Vreni and Dirk.

Frederick was certain he had seen this outspoken young man amongst the group of students assigned to Master Gedymin, the same Witcher that had attacked Meinard on sight the first night that Frederick had come to the castle. The lad was tall, with broad shoulders, a powerful build, and a fierce determination to his features. Sporting brown hair that fell to his shoulders and a thick though well-groomed beard, the youth's eyes burned with fiery intensity, his movements and gestures animated as he spoke. His armour, while basic, was somewhat more elaborate than that of most of the school's adepts, more fitted than the standard training gear the others wore, hinting at perhaps a more affluent upbringing than most. Even so, his powerful frame and hard gaze spoke of the series of rough turns that had brought him to Kaer Marter. A pointing finger jabbed the air as he spoke.

"You sensed something in us, you brought us here. We want to help!"

"I understand, and I commend your enthusiasm, but none of you have your medallions yet." Dirk countered. "You may have the potential to cast powerful signs, but without the training, you can't help us perform this ritual."

"Then let us help in some other way." The youth earnestly bargained. "You can sense our strength, why not use it? Let us use our strength to help the others in casting their Signs. We can support the others, keep them from faltering."

Dirk paused, regarding the determined young man with tired but understanding eyes. He looked to Vreni, who shrugged, and then the Signs Master nodded.

"Fine, fine! I'll place each of you with a different group of adepts. At the very least you can catch any of them who may pass out during the ritual."

The young man opened his mouth to reply, but held his tongue, instead just nodding his gratitude. Dirk, knowing the matter to be settled, turned to the gathering cluster of students. Roughly twenty now filled the courtyard.

"That looks like everyone." He raised his voice. "Okay! Gather round. I'm only going to explain this once. Our friends from Temeria have come to us with a magical problem. How many of you have heard of the Sorceress, Filippa Eilhart?"

Frederick's ears twitched at the name. He'd certainly heard of the famed magic-user. Master Travis had had a few dealings with her, although never face-to-face. He always spoke of her in hushed tones, as if fearing that speaking her name would somehow summon her. His eyes, normally so shrewd and so confident, would flash with envy, admiration, and sometimes just a little bit of fear. Certainly he never trusted her. Frederick knew only two things for certain- Master Travis only trusted those he believed he could control, and feared only those whose power exceeded his own. For Lady Filippa to have such a profound impact upon the old Mage, she had to be powerful indeed.

"Lady Eilhart is an advisor to the king, and on occasion has offered her services to the Wolf School to aid us in breaking powerful curses and enchantments." He explained. "However, she has recently fallen afoul of an unfortunately cast shapeshifting spell, and is trapped in the body of an owl. The king has tasked us with breaking the enchantment and returning Lady Filippa to her true form. The only way to do this, unfortunately, is through the use of a complex and dangerous ritual that will require a great amount of power. We have prepared most of the groundwork for this ritual, but we need more power. That's where you all come in."

He began to pace between the students.

"We have gathered several runestones to assist in the ritual. They will serve to channel and contain some of the energy needed, but we will need you all to help us cast certain Signs to complete the ritual."

Both he and Vreni moved through the group, splitting certain students away into separate groups. Dirk pointed to the groups in sequence.

"You will create a circle of Yrden, to tether Filippa's physical body in place and draw the magic towards her. You, group number two, will cast the Igni Sign to destroy her owl form, while at the same time group number three will use Aard to push her spirit out of the body, forcing it to manifest in Human form." He turned to a fourth cluster of adepts. "And we will need you to stand ready around the circle. The magical energy we are about to unleash will be potent, unstable. Once Filippa's owl form is destroyed, it will unleash a lot of this energy in the form of a physical explosion. We need you to use the Quen Sign to protect your fellow students from the blast."

The Wolf Master came to a halt in front of Frederick and his comrades, a pensive look to his features.

"Stand to one side." He instructed. "You also have a role, but we must discuss this alone"

He turned back to the rest of the group, Vreni stepping up beside him.

"Each group shall have a student assigned who has not yet gone through formal Signs training, and has no medallion. They are not meant to help with casting the Signs. Rather, they will serve as a support for the others, both physically and spiritually. If you start to grow weary, and the strain of using so much power becomes too much, they will be there to catch you before you fall. Draw from their presence, and use them to stay strong until the ritual is complete. If we falter before the spell is done, we risk the lives of everyone present. Understood?"

The students nodded, quiet as they contemplated the Master's solemn words. Frederick noted more than a few hesitant faces among them. One student, close to the back of the cluster, raised a hand.

"If Lady Filippa is an owl right now, that means she's not got any clothes, correct?" He asked with a leer. "So, when we change her back..."

The gathered crowd began to mutter, some with anticipation, a few leering comments passed between some of the younger adepts. Behind Dirk and Vreni, the Blue Stripes frowned, eyes flashing with indignation as Dirk raised his hands to quiet the murmurs.

"...she will be naked, yes." He spoke up sharply. "But she will also still be the representative of the king, and should be respected! So get those childish thoughts out of your head, and focus on the damn ritual!"

This said, the Master turned away, waving a hand to dismiss the crowd. He moved back to the Nightsabers, Vreni again at his side.

"I've kept your part in the ritual until last, students, because it is a delicate one. We'll need your full focus and commitment to the ritual in order to succeed, and I'm afraid this part will put you all in great danger. Do you understand?"

"We're ready to do our part." Darren proclaimed boldly.

"Good... good." Dirk nodded his approval. "Vreni will explain what you need to do."

The lithe Witcher Master stepped forward, her eyes gleaming in the darkness as she spoke.

"Lady Filippa is a very powerful magic user." She explained. "Her mastery over the magical arts, especially those that affect the mind, is rivalled by few in the world. This puts us all at considerable risk while performing the ritual. She may not have control over her own mind while we are forcing her out of her current body, and she may try to lash out at us in self-defence. With powers like hers, she could easily drive everyone involved in the ritual to madness, making all of these adepts and even accomplished Masters such as myself or Dirk descend into an insane frenzy." She began to pace, hands folded before her stomach. "This is why we need you to defend us. You must cast Axii to calm her, hold her in check. If she tries to fight us for even a moment, we will surely all be destroyed."

"But we haven't learned the Axii sign yet." Frederick interjected, consternation rising in his gut. Three adepts contending with one of the most powerful minds in the land? He couldn't help but feel worried.

"We"re going to teach you, here and now." Vreni answered, not skipping a beat. "You three all have great potential, and are best suited to this task. Dirk has told me that you all picked up the basic Signs very quickly, and one of you was even raised by a Mage? You're our best hope to keep Lady Filippa from lashing out against us."

Frederick fell silent at the Witcher's words. Was this why he'd had that dream tonight? Trying to remind him of the powers he had once channeled, in preparation for calling upon them again in this ritual? Or perhaps, a dark corner of his mind piped up, it was serving as a warning, reminding him of the near-lethal consequences he'd once suffered. He couldn't decide which option was the more worrisome. He had no further time to think, though, for Vreni had stepped up close, dropping into a ready stance. Her hands, small, delicate, hung by her sides, fingers flexing and clenching.

"The Axii Sign is a challenging one, because it affects the mind of your target. On a certain deep level, they have to work with you to make it succeed. You are channeling your intent into them, making their entire consciousness shift around your thoughts and emotions." She raised a hand, palm downwards, fingers outstretched. "Axii is a calm Sign, so your thoughts and words must be calm, too. Think of it like water, flowing over a round stone. At first, the water goes around the stone, swallowing it up. But, as speed and force grow, the stone slowly rolls over, moving with the water. This Sign is the same. Your thoughts, your intent, must flow over and overwhelm your target's mind. So, to help channel this, the Sign you trace with your hand is very similar to a rolling wave."

The Witcher's hand moved, fingers rippling in a wave-like motion, tracing a circular, undulating path through the air.

"Feet firmly on the ground, mind clear, voice calm." Vreni instructed. "Make sure you are completely centred, and be absolutely certain of your intent. Any hesitation, and the Sign shall fail."

The three Nightsabers nodded, each replicating the gesture. Frederick focused his mind inwards, trying to find the mental centre he needed. A knot in his stomach pulled at his focus, everything that could go wrong with the plan popping into his thoughts at every turn. Anxiously, he lowered his hand. He could only hope he'd be able to summon the needed clarity when he found himself in the situation. Vreni, watching them all with sharp, unblinking eyes, shrugged her shoulders.

"That's as much time as we can spare. We must begin the ritual soon, before the night grows old." She turned back to her fellow Witcher. "We still have matters to attend to, Dirk. Let's leave the students to prepare themselves."

Dirk nodded, his brow creased with concentration. He spared the Nightsabers a quick glance, flashing them a reassuring, if hollow, smile.

"Good luck, students!" His positive expression faded, before he muttered under his breath, clearly not intending for the adepts to overhear him. "You'll need it..."

As the two Witchers walked away, another figure approached the trio, the young man who had been challenging Dirk previously. A smile flashed under his impressive beard, his eyes twinkling as he nodded a greeting.

"The Masters have assigned me to assist you in the ritual." He explained. "I am Reinmar."

"Good to meet you, Reinmar." Darren stepped forward, hand outstretched. "These are my friends Hilda, and Frederick."

"A pleasure." The young man tilted his head as he grasped the hands of each of the Nightsabers in turn with a firm, powerful handshake. As he stepped back, his tone grew more serious. "I don't know how to cast Signs like you do, but I am here to help you in any way I can. Whatever strength I can lend to you is at your disposal."

Frederick winced at the almost aggressively friendly handshake, the bones in his hand rattling, but as he returned the newcomer's greeting and looked the young man in the eye, he instantly felt an unusual kinship with this Reinmar, his instincts telling him much about the youth. At first a little overwhelmed by the instant bond he sensed, Frederick eventually found his tongue.

"Thank you, Reinmar. I am sure your help will be of great use."

The long-haired newcomer turned to glance over his shoulder, spotting the rest of the group beginning to form up behind Dirk and Vreni, the two Witchers marching towards the edge of the forest beyond the training ground.

"Come on," He gestured with his head. "We don't want to be left behind!"


	36. Chapter 36- The Ritual

Deep in the forest, at the same place Dirk had held his Signcasting lessons, the gathered students now waited anxiously, the two Witcher Masters directing them into their positions. Frederick could feel the magical power of the area, far beneath the soil, pulsing and shivering in response to the presence of so many. His own medallion hummed in harmony with it, as did those of a few others, he noticed. As Frederick closed his eyes, reaching out with his mind, he realised that the magic somehow felt different, more alert. Whether that was because of all the magically-inclined adepts around, or the glowing runestones that Vreni was carefully placing in a circle in the middle of the clearing, the young adept couldn't tell. All he knew was that a tense energy coloured the aura of the place, setting ablaze the minds of all present.

All present fell silent as Dirk, kneeling in the dirt to mark out a few unusual symbols with the broken end of a stick, suddenly stood up straight, dusting himself off. He turned to face the students once more, gesturing at a few of them to adjust their positions, then looked to the edge of the clearing, beckoning. A young girl clad in a simple green smock, presumably a servant or aide, stepped out of the gloom and into the torchlight. On her outstretched wrist perched an owl, small, delicate, with soft gold-brown plumage adorning her back, head and wings. The tiny creature shifted on the girl's wrist, keeping perfectly balanced as the girl carried her to the centre of the clearing. Gently, the girl dropped into a crouch next to a fallen log, and the owl hopped from her slender hand to grab hold of an upward-reaching branch, head twisting to regard those around her with alarmingly alert and intelligent eyes. The tiny beak of the owl clacked open and closed a couple of times as the deep, black eyes scanned the gathered adepts, lingering on each of them.

Frederick's head buzzed, sudden dizziness threatening to overcome him. On the chain around his neck, his medallion bounced and jangled violently, threatening to tear loose. The aura of pure arcane potency that surrounded this owl was overwhelming, intoxicating. The young adept felt his blood pound through his veins, his heart slamming against his ribs as he struggled for breath. Beside him, Reinmar seemed to be similarly affected, although was far better at keeping his composure. Struggling, Frederick took in a few deep breaths, forcing himself not to drown in the waves of raw energy flooding around him. Instead, he tried to still his thoughts as Dirk spoke up.

"You all know your roles in the ritual, but remember, this will need your total focus! Clear your minds, reach down and touch the energies flowing through the land here. Try to find a connection with each other, you'll find greater strength working together than alone. Whatever happens, do not stop casting until we say so! One wrong twitch could bring calamity down on all of us!"

Frederick nodded at the Witcher's words, taking in a deep breath and releasing it, trying to still the ripples of thought in his head. Hands, trembling, dropped down to his sides, clenching into tight fists. Slowly, he let his mind drift free, slipping into the currents of the magic around him, feeling as the twenty or so students around him did the same. At his side, Hilda and Darren also reached deep into the magic of the area, glowing beacons whose light was reflected in his own, growing stronger as they connected and merged. Through this growing bond, Frederick could feel their anxiety, mirroring his own worries. Finally, after several long, quiet moments, Vreni broke the silence.

"Yrden! Ready?" She stepped up to the foremost circle of students, all crouching beside the runestones in a ring around the transformed Sorceress. "And.. cast!"

"YRDEN!"

Five outstretched palms slammed into the ground, sending a tremor through the earth under the feet of all present. Glowing symbols of Yrden lit up in the dirt, a faint purple aura coating the circle. The owl twitched at the Sign, flapping her wings as a faint indigo mist draped itself across her. Frederick felt the magic of the area change in response to the Sign, suddenly flowing past the adepts and into the centre of the circle, like water swirling down a deep hole. The air throughout the entire clearing became heavy, thick, like clinging mud. The very thought of trying to move became tiresome.

"Nightsabers, stand ready!" Dirk commanded, pacing behind the ring of adepts cautiously.

The trio of Nightsabers raised their hands, all taking deep breaths. Frederick, eyes still closed, tried to focus on a single image, one ideal, calming picture in his mind. Finally, a scene began to resolve in his mind's eye, the library back in Asheberg, before the accident. He focused, visualising every book, every mote of dust in the air, every unopened page, thrumming with power. A powerful serenity flowed through him, and he harnessed it, crafting a net of raw intent from the thoughts, a powerful lever to use in his cast. This done, his thoughts turned outward again, and now towards his target.

As the former mage's apprentice opened himself up to the mind trapped within the owl at the heart of the clearing, it was all Frederick could do to not retreat in fear, turning tail and bolting from the clearing. After purposely avoiding exposing his mind to that of the trapped sorceress until he had to, the true magnitude of the mind before him was almost overwhelming. While the adepts and even the Witcher Masters present in the clearing could only be described as bright beacons of light swimming in the magical waters of the area, the mind of Filippa Eilhart was almost infinitely larger, brighter, burning like a terrible inferno. The raw potency of the sorceress' presence was blinding, breathtaking and terrifying all at once.

In that instant, Frederick was transported back to the dark plains of his nightmare, the fields of tiny lights being swept up and consumed by the much larger titans that walked among them. With a start, he realised that he was looking at one such monolithic being in that very instant, resolving itself into the form of the titanic owl that prowled those plains, wicked talons sweeping through the smaller masses of light to deadly effect. Fear, both of the sorceress' raw power and what her presence in his dreams could mean, threatened to overwhelm the young adept.

A hand grasped hold of Frederick's shoulder, strong, but gentle at the same time. A new presence intruded on his mind, the sudden connection between him and the hand's owner opening up from the physical contact. As the young Witcher hopeful started at the unexpected presence, he soon realised the contours of Reinmar's mind, reaching out to link with his own, and those of his Nightsaber comrades. In the swirling activity of the clearing, the young adept's mind was a surprising centre of calm and clarity, a rock standing fast in the heart of a fast-flowing river. His calm soon spread to the three adepts, his brightly glowing core a bolstering influence, and Frederick soon found his nerve once more, steadying his own thoughts. Just at that moment, Dirk unleashed his next command.

"Axii! Now!"

Frederick drew in a deep breath, and then released it as a single command.

"Axii..."

The word flowed across his lips, carrying with it a powerful instruction. The image in his head, the peaceful library in Asheberg, leapt from his mind, channeled directly at the sorceress' mind. With it, the simple but powerful suggestion- be calm, all is well, you are safe. Like a rope lashing itself around an enormous beast, the directive of pure, unadulterated serenity tethered the adept's mind to that of the owl. Beside him, Hilda and Darren launched similar thoughts at the sorceress, an image of the desk of a becalmed ship and that of a series of simple sword drills mixing with Frederick's own calming thoughts.

"Good! Maintain the cast!" Dirk instructed, still pacing. The Master came to a halt with another group of adepts. "Next, Igni and Aard! Step up. Quen, stand ready!"

Eight students stepped up, a further four moving to positions around the circle, hands clenching and unclenching by their sides. The Igni and Aard teams tensed, waiting for the Masters. Vreni moved to stand next to one team, Dirk with the other.

"Igni first, then Aard just as the body begins to disintegrate!" Dirk looked about carefully. "Yrden and Axii teams, no matter what, do not stop channelling!"

Frederick braced himself, feeling the group of adepts dedicated to casting Igni draw power up through their feet, setting alight blazing stars in their chests as their lungs swelled and their hands pulled back, unleashing the bound power with a mighty shout. The blast of energy converged on the owl, but something distorted the energy, the flames washing against an unseen protective charm coating the tiny creature's body. In response to the attack, Filippa's mind flinched, instinctively squirming against the mental restraints of the Nightsabers as the animalistic portion of her mind fought to strike back against the attack. Frederick's will strained to fight against that of the Sorceress, trying to keep her calm, subdued, while the Igni Sign lashed against her protective spell, sapping at her strength. Over the sound of crackling flames, Dirk's shouted words could be heard.

"Dammit, she must have put up a shielding spell before she changed! We'll have to burn it out. Igni team, again!"

Another infernal blast raged out, striking the arcane bubble around the owl with ferocity. Again, Lady Eilhart's mind resisted the shackles placed upon it, raw, unguided survival instinct taking over and trying to lay waste to the source of the attack. In the centre of the clearing, the owl flapped her wings, a shriek of consternation escaping her beak.

A final, terrible blast of raw flame surged from the outreaching hands of the adepts, a white-hot blaze that Frederick could see through his mind's eye as a roaring, raging wall of blinding magical light. It hit the owl's defensive barrier, hesitated just a moment against the invisible resistance, then passed right through, the barrier splintering like a pane of glass, shards of energy ripping through the clearing. A few struck the unsuspecting adepts, taking the breath from their throats, making more than a few stumble. The adepts whose responsibility it was to cast Quen stepped forward, but the moment passed before they could properly act, and all trace of the barrier was gone. The wave of untamed fire powered on, striking the owl.

The tiny creature's body vanished in an instant, feathers, flesh, bone all disintegrating under the merciless inferno. As Frederick observed, just barely keeping his hold on the mental tether to Lady Eilhart's mind, the living form of the creature vanished, and something was unleashed from the frail physical cage. The true essence of Filippa Eilhart flooded forth from the ashes of that body, a bright star unlocked from its prison.

As the brilliant beacon flooded the surrounding area with its luminance, Vreni yelled a command to her students, the adepts accompanying the Master in casting a single, focused Aard blast. A bolt of pure force struck the glowing luminary, hurling it back a few paces with an almighty tearing sound. As Lady Eilhart's essence was thrust back, the motion created an almost inexplicable connection between the arcane plane and the material one, her resplendent magical 'body' manifesting in the world as flesh, blood, and a burning, rampaging spirit at its core, holding it all together. The owl's shriek, previously lost in the roaring of flames and rushing of air, returned with almost painful intensity, slowly transforming into the screams of a woman. As it did so, Frederick sensed the brilliant nexus of energy within the Sorceress' rapidly forming body pull back into herself, then suddenly surge outwards in an unrestrained rush. Dirk was quick to react.

"Quen! NOW!" The command could not be ignored. The final team stepped forward, casting with a quick, concentrated shout.

The blast of power, manifesting as a raw physical explosion, lashed against the magical shields, but was contained. Many of the adepts groaned under the strain, but with the aid of the Masters, they held true. All the while, at the heart of the ritual, hovering above the clearing's scorched grass and the ashes of the tree log that had once been the perch of the owl, a new form continued to take shape.

"Channellers! Don't let up!" Dirk commanded, clearly winded.

Lady Eilhart's mind continued to writhe in the heart of the explosion, fighting against the shackles of the Nightsabers. Frederick felt his blood begin to pound in his veins, his muscles beginning to throb, his temples pierced by a fearsome, agonising pain. He wasn't sure how much longer he could hold out. A droplet of blood traced its way from his nostril to his lip, dangling there for a moment before a shiver of his head set it tumbling free.

The young adept almost lost all control moments later when, with no warning, Darren collapsed with a soft sigh, the light of his presence within the ritual winking out as his tether to the Sorceress' mind vanished. Moments later, Hilda followed, dropping to her knees with a pained grunt, wheezing loudly beside him. Frederick struggled, suddenly finding the strain of the spell resting squarely on his mind, and he could already feel the cracks starting to spread around the edges of his consciousness.

Suddenly, a hand grasped his shoulder, and Frederick found himself bolstered by the same presence he had felt earlier when he had reached out to Reinmar's mind. The young adept leaned in close beside him, never letting go of his shoulder as he spoke.

"Take a knee." His words were clipped, precise, but full of warmth. Even as he sensed the turmoil around himself, Reinmar remained resolute. "I've got you, Frederick, you can do this. I'll hold you up, just focus on the Sign."

"I can't do it..." Frederick gasped. "She's too strong!"

"You've got this, my friend." Reinmar's words offered strength. "Just take a knee, and let me help you."

Frederick complied, his leg muscles creaking as he slowly lowered himself into a crouch. Reinmar followed closely, never breaking contact with him. With his free hand, Reinmar reached out towards the crouching Hilda, her shoulders still heaving as she wrestled to keep her wits about her. The moment Reinmar's hand found her shoulder, Frederick felt a renewed connection to the Skelliger, the young man forming a link in a chain between the two Nightsabers. The former mage's apprentice could sense her flagging spirit, her growing weariness, but by Reinmar forming the mental bridge between her and her friend, Hilda was able to regain some of her composure, her stores renewed. She reached out with one hand, finding that of the barely-conscious Darren, offering the other Nightsaber the strength of their link, then lifted her other hand, once more establishing the cast alongside Frederick. And so the pair, soon followed by a reinvigorated Darren, continued to hold, maintaining the Axii Sign just a little while longer, both clinging to Reinmar's sturdy spirit like drowning men finding a stable rock in the midst of a streaming torrent.

At long last, there was an incredible flash from the heart of the clearing, then blinding darkness, all the more potent for the absence of the lights of the ritual. Almost everyone present, Frederick included, collapsed with an overwhelming sense of relief. Whether the ritual had been a success or not, it did not matter. All that mattered was it was over. Silence dropped on the adepts with a heavy weight.

Dirk and Vreni quickly moved to the centre of the ritual ground, kneeling in the ash next to a dark lump. The Wolf School Master leaned down for a closer look, then lifted his head.

"She survived." He breathed, almost disbelieving. "Quickly, does anyone have a cloak?"

Frederick wanted to move to help, but dark clouds danced in the corners of his vision. Through the murk, he thought he saw Hilda struggle up on unsteady legs, hobbling over to the Masters. More students joined her, obscuring Frederick's vision of the scene, as they helped some slight, frail figure to her feet. What glimpses Frederick could catch through the crowd told him little, although he noted that the new figure in their midst seemed a little... odd. Somehow off, as though not entirely Human. But before he could try to climb to his feet for a closer look, Dirk ushered the crowding students back and, draping an arm around his new charge, escorted her away from the clearing.

The young Nightsaber tried to climb to his feet again, a dizzying rush of blood flowing through his skull as he wavered for a moment, before Reinmar stood before him, keeping him from pitching forward face-first into the dirt. The young adept smiled encouragingly, patting him on the arm.

"You did well, Frederick, but you look like shit now!" He chuckled heartily. "Come on, let's head to the Tavern. I know the perfect remedy for what ails you!"

As Reinmar steered him away, slinging one arm across his shoulders to half-carry him out of the clearing, Frederick couldn't help but glance at the retreating cluster of students surrounding Master Dirk and the newly-changed Sorceress now in his care. Uneasiness at what he had seen of the famed Lady's power through the ritual gnawed away at his gut, memories of his nightmares plaguing him. He tried to banish the thoughts, instead turning his attention to simply putting one foot before the other. He couldn't fret too much about it now. It would be best to leave it for another day to worry himself over the dangers posed by Lady Filippa Eilhart.


	37. Chapter 37- Etiquette

The grand room was called the Peacock Room, and for good reason. Murals portraying the elegant creatures adorned the walls, an overwhelmingly lavish display. The room was most opulently furnished, fine wooden floorboards matched by an immense dining table and sumptuously upholstered chairs. Heavy velvet drapes cascaded down over the windows, an effective barrier against the bright summer sun outside. The table was set for a feast, delicate silverware arranged neatly, fine porcelain plates decorated with strange blue patterns, a far cry from the basic earthen vessels used in the Great Hall at meal times. Around the table, the Nightsabers waited awkwardly for their instructor to arrive, and their next, possibly strangest class of all to begin.

In the aftermath of Lady Eilhart's curse being lifted, the Sorceress had made many changes around the castle, often in spite of the protests of its Witcher inhabitants. No matter how loudly Bertram, Gedymin, Algir or any of the others voiced their disapproval, the Lady simply ignored them. One of the many changes she had instituted, to the puzzlement of many adepts, was the introduction of Etiquette lessons to their Witcher curriculum. To the surprise of no one, Master Lennart was quick to step up in the role of teacher of these classes, relishing the chance to try and bring some civility to the guild. He and Lady Filippa shared these lessons, at times individually, sometimes together teaching the same students, as the class required. Needless to say, mealtimes were a changed thing, many students now eating more slowly, methodically, utensils gripped carefully between digits. Those who strayed from such teachings soon found themselves the target of a fearsome gaze from Master Lennart or, far worse, a quiet word or two from the Sorceress. Now, after nearly three weeks of Njall constantly blowing off the two Etiquette instructors, the Skelliger had been forced to acquiesce and submit his students to the lessons, although no force in the heavens above or the world below could force the Cat Master to attend himself, the Skelliger having conveniently vanished sometime before dawn on a 'hunt'. The keg of mead Bertram reported missing from the cellars that morning surely had nothing to do with where the burly Master might have been.

Frederick was just listening to Hilda relate a story of how the previous night the Godling, Tipsy, had somehow managed to get into Gedymin's private stash of Fisstech, and the antics that followed, when the door to the room suddenly slammed open. There, framed in the threshold, stood Lady Eilhart, shrewd eyes narrowing as she regarded the gathered class. Even though she had been changed back from the body of the owl some time ago by now, still she showed a few outward signs of acclimatising to her newly restored body. Occasionally her head would twitch to the side in a bird-like motion, her eyes would narrow like a hawk's. Sometimes her step seemed a little odd, awkward, as though she had longer legs than her body currently allowed for. The odd feather would turn up in her clothing, littering every corner of the castle, much to the dismay of the servants. And watching the Sorceress eat was an odd display, the Lady raising the morsel towards her mouth delicately, then darting her head forward to snatch it from the fork with predatory speed and ferocity. At times, her head would tilt back as she swallowed, the tidbits of food barely chewed. Some instincts, it seemed, were hard to shake off.

Without a word, Filippa flounced into the room, her step light as she tossed her head back with a haughty air. She cast her belongings, an ornate sword and a few dried scrolls, onto the table carelessly, disturbing the table settings in the process. Unceremoniously, she dropped into the chair at the head of the table, booted feet rising to strike the table's surface as she slouched backwards languorously. She tilted her head from side to side, regarding the class as a whole, then a small smirk slipped across her features.

"Well," She smiled like a cat watching a mouse between its paws. "Let's begin, shall we? First lesson in etiquette, what did I just do wrong?"

The Nightsabers were surprised, stunned for just a moment at being given such control over the conversation. Some jaws worked silently, at a loss as to what to say. Others narrowed their eyes, looking for the hidden trap in the Sorceress' words. Finally, bold as ever, Darren was the first to speak up.

"You're late."

"Excellent!" The Sorceress leaned back in her chair, tilting it onto its back legs. "Punctuality is the height of good manners."

"You just threw your belongings on the table, without so much as a by-your-leave." Hilda added.

"Good. And I did not ask permission before taking my place at the table. Always respect the homes and hearths of those with whom you visit. Each man is a king within his own four walls, and should be treated as such."

"Your feet." Frederick managed, although his tongue felt thick in his mouth as he spoke. The Sorceress' presence still unnerved the young Witcher hopeful, her raw power scrambling his mind, while stories of her exploits buzzed around his thoughts, advising him to use extreme caution.

In response to his words, Lady Filippa's chair shot bolt upright, her feet swinging off the table to strike the floor with a dainty wooden clack. The Sorceress placed an elbow on each arm of the luxurious chair, fingers tenting before her face, her features hawk-like behind those elegant fingernails. Somehow, the attentive posture was no more reassuring than her confident, languid slouching from before.

"Yes, we must be respectful to the belongings of those we meet." Filippa nodded sagely. "So no feet on the table, no leaning back in your chair, and no mud brought in from outside. Try not to track a month's worth of zeugl droppings and griffin blood through someone's home. What else?"

Silence fell across the table, awkward, deep. Filippa glanced to each timid face with an amused smirk. The Sorceress' eyebrow quirked.

"No one?" She asked. "What about an apology? I arrived late, I kept you waiting. When it comes to social missteps, there are few greater. I wasted your time, and should apologise for it. As should you, if ever you find yourself in my position."

At that moment, almost as if on cue, the door to the Peacock Room rattled open, striking the plaster wall with a loud slam. A hastily-dressed Witcher stumbled through, still tugging down his shirt and fiddling with his belt buckle. The young adept known as Colin looked up to see the whole class staring at him while Filippa, her back to the door, slowly rotated in her chair, eyebrow still raised questioningly. As she spotted the young Witcher, the gleam in her eyes flashed a little, turning just a touch more predatory in nature as her lips twisted upwards.

"Perfect." She savoured the word. As she did so, Colin moved to scuttle into one of the closest chairs. The Sorceress raised a hand. "Stop!"

The word had no magical incantation behind it, but there was something in Lady Filippa's voice that simply could not be ignored or disobeyed. Colin froze where he stood.

"Turn around, go back to the door, and enter properly." The Sorceress instructed him slowly. "Make sure to show me the respect I am due as you do so."

Puzzled, the flustered Colin did as he was told, returning to the doorway, and stepping through once more, this time sparing the Sorceress a nod of greeting before, once more, making a beeline towards the chair.

"Wrong!" Filippa tried to suppress an amused chuckle. "You do not barge into an occupied room. You announce your presence politely, with a knock. Then, once we acknowledge you, you come in and explain yourself."

"Okay..." Colin frowned, seeming to struggle with the concept. He turned around, stepping through the door again, this time knocking loudly as he pushed the door open, once again wordlessly heading straight for the empty chair. As he brushed past Lady Filippa, her hand darted out, catching his wrist in a firm, unshakable grip.

"No..." She sighed, closing her eyes as her amusement created a momentary lapse in composure. Around her, the Nightsabers guffawed loudly. "Not like that. Let's go through this again. Go back to the door, knock, wait for us to see you and allow you into the room. Then, introduce yourself, and apologise to me for being late and delaying my class, and explain where you were. Once I have accepted your apology and invited you to the table, then you may sit. Understood?"

"Hmmf." Colin grunted as his hand was released, returning to the doorway again. As he stepped out, Lady Filippa made a show of turning back to the table, back facing towards the doorway. Her eyes briefly met with a few of those around the table, a chain of mirth passing between them.

The young adept knocked, folding his hands anxiously before himself as he waited for a response. Slowly, deliberately, the Sorceress turned around.

"Yes?" Her voice dripped with honey.

"Um, hello." The adept stuttered. "I am Colin. I am late, and I am sorry and... I cannot remember the rest of what you wanted me to say."

The entire table descended into fits of giggles as Lady Filippa sighed, pinching the bridge of her delicate nose.

"By the stars..." She groaned. "Alright, close enough for now. We have a great deal of work ahead of us..."

She turned back to the table, stretching her arms out in front of herself with a flourish. A lone white feather escaped from the cuff of one of her sleeves, drifting down to land gently on the table. She disregarded it.

"Now, on to- ah, Master Lennart! I did not see you there."

The students spun to find the older Witcher standing at the far head of the table, leaning gently on his cane as he regarded the Nightsabers. A small smirk lurked under his moustache.

"Yes, I was just observing your teaching methods, Lady Eilheart. It is said there are few in the realm who under stand the complexities of social interaction and etiquette as well as you."

A small smile tugged at the corners of the Sorceress' mouth.

"I, of course, am considered one of those select few." The Witcher added smoothly, eyes glowing proudly as Lady Filippa's expression grew just a fraction more stony. The air between the pair slowly drained of all heat. The tension grew and grew, until finally it shattered as one of the brothers from Velen, Otto, spoke up.

"Why do we even need to learn all this stuff?" He asked scornfully. "I came here to learn to wield weapons and fight monsters, not how to talk fancy and bow and scrape in front of nobles."

All was silent in the grand room for a long moment. Lennart regarded the young man, a slow, small smile surfacing beneath his moustache.

"Ah, yes, of course." The Witcher's voice purred. "That's what matters, isn't it? Killing monsters and waving swords around. But the truth is, my lessons here in this room can help you to fell far worse beasts than you will ever meet out in the forests and wild roads of this world. The words I share with you, used correctly, can be far more devastating weapons than any blade or bow you might pick up. The beasts I train you to face are truly fearsome, for they are the nobles and lords you must do business with in the line of our work." He began to pace, cane tapping against the wooden floor with a loud, rhythmic tap-tap-tap. He circled the table, body glowing with predatory grace and threatening energy, in spite of the Witcher's shorter frame. "If you do not respect the rules of etiquette, if you treat your clients with disrespect and show yourself to be a thuggish brute, if you cannot navigate the social circles of the upper levels of society, then you should turn tail and RUN!" His voice rose sharply, a loud bark that caused the spines of all present to stiffen in surprise, the monster hunter's words striking deep into their cores. Even the bold Otto quailed under the sudden shout, shrinking back down into his seat. Unfazed, Lennart continued. "Or you will die. Perhaps your poor manners will earn you some new enemies, or cost you a contract that you need to fill your belly on a cold winter's night. Perhaps you will be cast out of town on your arse, penniless, horseless, homeless, all because you failed to pay the proper respects to the right dignitaries."

He continued around the table until he found himself next to Lady Filippa's chair, placing a gentle hand on the back of the seat as he stood at her side. The Sorceress sat quietly, sharp eyes moving to each student in turn, blackness at the centre of them weighing each one on some unknowable scale. Without losing a beat, Lennart continued the lesson.

"If two Witchers walk into a contract negotiation, who do you think will win the contract, and the chance to earn their coin? The one who speaks properly, shows the correct courtesy, and is civilised, or the one who is brash, coarse, a thug in armour with no respect? Who do you think will stand a better chance of negotiating a favourable reward for his work? Who gets three silver coins per Drowner, and who gets just one and a half?" A pause, but not a long one. "It is the educated one, of course. When you step into a noble's house, or stand before the thrones of kings and the gates of lords, you walk into dangerous territory. Only one truly versed in the laws and traditions of this territory can walk through it unscathed."

The Witcher turned to look at Lady Filippa, a question in his gaze.

"Shall we cover insults now?"

"Oh, please!" The Sorceress nodded eagerly. "It's always fun to watch them scramble!"

"As you wish." Lennart turned back to the class, eyes narrowing as he glanced at Otto. "You! Stand up. The boy next to you, also."

The two boys from Velen complied, looking somewhat wary.

"Let's cover the art of the insult." Lennart began to pace again, cane clacking on the floor loudly. "Our words are our weapons, in the arena of civilisation. They can be used to cut down those we stand against. An insult, skillfully applied, can tear down the standing of your opponent in the eyes of his peers. You can transform his allies into yours with a few deft words. By the same measure, a clumsily thrown insult can turn an entire room against you, or make you seem weak before your target. You, boy who thinks himself above these lessons, shall craft an insult and throw it at your friend beside you. Let's see what skill you possess."

"Um, okay." Otto raised an eyebrow quizzically, but did not protest, instead turning to face Fordalt. As their gazes locked, the two brothers chuckled nervously. "Uh... you... are a cunt. A daft, lazy cunt!"

Otto stepped back, a somewhat proud grin on his face. He looked to Lennart, who cupped his chin with one hand ponderously. Beside him, Fordalt's cheeks flushed at his brother's words. Both straightened as Lennart spoke out once more.

"And that's it? That's the best you could come up with?" He asked with a sigh. "Tell me, why use the word 'cunt'? Why do you consider that an insult? Is it because it is a part of a woman's body, something you consider a bad thing?"

"Well... yeah." Otto shifted uncomfortably on his feet.

"I see... and yet, you find yourself in the presence of the MOST POWERFUL WOMAN IN TEMERIA!" His voice barked out harshly, a broad gesture towards Lady Filippa as the Sorceress grinned widely, eyes flashing. "You've managed to insult someone other than your target, and made a powerful enemy at the table, one you are most certainly not ready to contend with! Your words are clumsy, coarse and unrefined. You must be more nuanced in your manner, if you wish to subtly control the conversation and manipulate those around you. Sit back down."

The Witcher circled the table, continuing a long loop that took him behind each of the Nightsabers. As the seasoned monster hunter passed being his chair, Frederick suppressed a shudder.

"The art of wordplay is a complex and many-layered dance, and you must learn each step carefully. Once spoken, a thoughtless comment or clumsy insult cannot be retrieved, and the grudges they spawn can have far-reaching consequences." He paused with a disdainful sniff. "If you find yourself outclassed, remember- you can always run away. Back down, hold your tongue, save face. In most situations, silence is preferable to being clumsy or appearing foolish."

He returned to his spot by Lady Filippa's chair, watching his students with hawk-like eyes.

"One method you can use to undercut an opponent is to clothe your insults in the fine fabric of a compliment. If you can maintain the tone of civility and grace even as you cut your foe to the core, they will find it difficult to retaliate without undermining their own position, showing themselves to lack in good grace. Perhaps one of you would care to try it with me?"

The Witcher nodded as Darren gestured his desire to participate, the young adept rising to his feet as Lennart moved to face him, both hands curling around the grip of his cane in a move that was deceptively unassuming, the knuckles of those scarred hands turning white under his firm grasp. A confident smirk slipped across Darren's face, a mischevious gleam in his eyes.

"I greatly admire you, Master Lennart." The adept's voice dripped with honey. "You have a reputation among others, you are famed for being the most cunning, treacherous, cold hearted killer among us. And yet, you mask it all so well with your airs of grace, elegance and civility. Truly, you are a master at hiding your true nature."

Lennart was silent for a moment, his mouth twitching up at the corners with mild approval. He nodded quietly before speaking.

"A good effort. A little on the nose, perhaps, but a good try. You have cloaked your words in something of a compliment, and even the root of your attack on my character comes from the words of others, rather than yourself. You merely tell me what others have said about me, while keeping your own involvement to a minimum. Well done."

"Perhaps now we should move on to compliments." Filippa spoke up. "For a compliment is just as valuable a tool in conversation as an insult, if not more so."

"How so?" Cyrus asked curiously. The Sorceress leaned forward, forearms pressing down on the table as she spoke.

"If you can deliver an effective compliment, it shows your respect for someone, makes them feel good, inclines them to look upon you more positively. Not only that, a good compliment can create a debt. The recipient feels indebted to you for the kindness, especially if the compliment is witnessed by his allies."

"By the same measure, you must be cautious with such gifts of words." Lennart cautioned. "If you are too generous, the recipient may feel you are creating an unfair debt, and will resent you for it. In trying to extend a kindness, you could accidentally create a foe just as easily as with an insult." His cane tapped the floor to underline his words, each loud clack a piece of punctuation. "Now, on to the basics of creating a fitting compliment."

The Witcher paused, drawing a pipe from his pouch. As the Nightsabers waited patiently, he filled it and, with a snap of his fingers, created a spark that lit its contents. Frederick sensed the tiny rush of power he summoned to cast the miniscule Igni Sign, and the young adept couldn't help but feel a little admiration for the display of fine control and focused thinking needed for such a task. Finally, after sending a few clouds of smoke floating up towards the ceiling, Lennart resumed his lesson.

"The first thing you must understand about giving a compliment- never fucking lie." The pipe left his mouth, the Witcher pointing with it to underline every word. "Your words must be genuine, if not sincere. Any falsehood in your words will soon be revealed, and then you lose any positive feeling the compliment might inspire. A false, disingenuous compliment can cause more harm to your social standing than even the worst insult."

"By the same measure, you should always be on guard against falsehoods in the words of others." Filippa cautioned, leaning back in her chair once more. "Discovering who lies to you and why they do it can be instrumental in helping you to dominate any social situation. As far as you know, everybody lies and nobody is trustworthy. If you go into a social event with this mindset, nobody will get the jump on you."

"Indeed." Lennart nodded in agreement.

"All this talk of domination, manipulation, turning others to your side..." Frederick's head spun as he spoke up, a knot of discomfort in his gut as the two instructors turned to look at him. "You're almost not talking about people anymore. You talk about these people as if we should view them a simple tools, to be used and then cast aside."

"Shouldn't we?" Lennart asked casually, an amused glint in his eyes. "Why shouldn't they be tools, assets for our benefit? Even your 'employers' are just another tool to ensure you get your gold. Those beneath them are all aids to achieving that goal. How effectively you can use your social graces and eloquence to control and manipulate those around you determines what you achieve for yourself."

Frederick went to respond, but none of the words he could think of seemed right, so he sat back in his chair, ponderously silent. Lennart, his point emphasised, turned back to the rest of the class.

"So, in crafting an effective compliment, you must understand that there are six different types of compliment. Some of them can seem very similar, but it is that similarity that makes it dangerous to confuse them. Sometimes, you can think that you are complimenting your target, but instead the praise ends up at the feet of another. Take, for example, Lady Filippa here." The Witcher gestured with his pipe, smoke still billowing from his last draw on it. He turned to point at Morold. "You. Say something complimentary about the Lady's clothing."

"Me? Um, uh..." Morold sat up straight in his seat, stammering as he scrambled to find his words. "My Lady, your dress is... uh, nice? No, beautiful!" His cheeks flushed as he spoke. "Yes, very beautiful."

Lady Filippa tilted her head appreciatively, a few tresses of her elegantly styled hair tumbling down to hide the quirk of a smile that tugged at the corner of her ruby lips. Lennart clicked his tongue disapprovingly.

"The dress may be beautiful, adept, but commenting on it alone pays no respect to Lady Filippa. Rather, you are complimenting her seamstress! Such a comment earns you no respect, and has not indebted Lady Filippa to you in any way." He turned his gaze away from the red-cheeked Morold. "The rest of you! How might you take this comment and turn it to your advantage?"

"Explain how she uses the dress to her advantage?" Darren suggested. "How the colours complement her eyes, the form emphasises her figure?"

Lady Filippa spared the young student a warm smile, at which Darren shivered, his flesh turning a slightly warmer shade of pink. He bowed his head quickly.

"Good, yes!" Lennart nodded. "Turn it into a compliment about her own looks, rather than just what she owns. Anything else?"

"Mention how it displays her taste?" Frederick offered.

"Excellent!" Lennart tapped his cane on the floor approvingly. "The dress may be the work of some faraway seamstress, but the choice in attire was all down to Lady Eilhart. In this way, you have shown that you value, not just her physical, superficial appearance, but also a deeper quality, something about her as a person." He began his pacing again, pipe still in his hand as he gestured, leaving long, elaborate trails of smoke in the air. "Here we see the first three kinds of compliment. The first is the simplest- you have something nice. This one has minimal impact, for often it is based in something that the recipient has little or nothing to do with, such as the quality of a dress, a home, jewellery, even a meal, unless they have actually prepared it.

"The second goes a little deeper, but it is still quite superficial- you have something good, or do something well, and it makes you look good." Another long draw on the pipe. "Again, this just looks at the surface, looks at outward appearances. It can take just a moment to observe and comment on these details, so no effort goes into complimenting them.

"Thirdly, you have the compliments that require more thought, and show a greater care and attention on your part- I see you have this nice thing, or you do this well, and it's tells me something about your character. You have to think about these compliments, put effort into looking beyond the surface. A woman's appearance can reflect her personal taste, a sense of style and grace. A lord's manor can show the fruits of his labours, the success of his investments, or even the wisdom of his strategic choices, if it is well situated and easily defensible. A healthy and swift horse can reflect the patience and skill of its breeder. All of these are details that can be complimented, and will earn you favour in the eyes of their recipients."

"In addition to these, you have three other kinds of compliment." Lady Filippa added. "These focus on how your target affects the world around them. How their presence or actions impact the people in their presence."

"Such as how they affect you." Lennart continued for the Sorceress. "You can comment on your admiration for them, and how you wish that you could be as good as they are. By debasing yourself, you elevate them in the conversation, and they feel indebted to you once more. But be careful! Such a compliment, if used ham-fistedly, can lower your own standing too much, and then the target would begin to question why they need to lower themselves to speak with you at all."

"You can also comment on how they have affected your life." Lady Filippa explained. "Mention a benefit that their actions have imparted to you. You can highlight a debt that you owe to them, carefully. If done right, they will feel that they can trust you more because of that debt, and bring you closer into their trusted circle. But if done wrongly, you can merely open up a wound over the unpaid debt, so tread lightly when doing so!"

"Lastly, you can turn the compliment to include the rest of your company, or even those not present." Lennart came to a halt at the head of the table, opposite Lady Filippa. He turned a sharp eye to Darren. "Such as when you tried to insult me, young adept. You mentioned how others viewed me, how my reputation affected those around me. Just as this can be used as a subtle jab, it can also be used to build up. Tell your target of how others admire him, or envy him, and you can grant him a boost in confidence. Subtle nudges such as these can steer your target's thinking to match yours, and make him more agreeable with your suggestions."

A sudden rattle of the doorhandle jolted the Nightsabers out of their focused state, Lennart pausing as the door jerked open. In the open threshold stood Ser Jost, the young envoy of the Temerian king, whom Frederick recognised from one of his many nights in the tavern. The normally confident young man hesitated as he regarded the room's inhabitants, before striding inside. He bowed his head in greeting.

"Filippa, Lennart."

"That's Lady Eilhart and Master Lennart to you, young Ser Jost." Lennart reprimanded sharply before sparing a sidelong glance to the Nightsabers. "Always remember the correct use of titles, students. Forget to show due deference to those around you, and you can doom your negotiations before they have even begun. If you are in doubt as to the correct pleasantries to use, at the very least refer to those you address as 'my Lord' or 'my Lady'."

Jost reddened at Lennart's comments, but somehow kept his next few words from having any bite to them, stiff posture and tight lips betraying the indignation flaring behind his eyes.

"Forgive me, Master Lennart." His hands spread wide as he made a show of bowing before the Witcher, then turning to the Sorceress . "Lady Eilhart. A mere momentary lapse in decorum, I assure you."

"Think nothing of it, Ser Jost." Lady Filippa replied sweetly, shifting in her chair a little. Her head tilted coyly as she graced the newcomer with a smile. "We are here to discuss the finer aspects of etiquette and decorum, after all. Perhaps you would care to join us for the lesson?"

Frederick had to admire the young man's composure. Even under the Sorceress' implication that he had need of such a lesson, Jost did not flinch, a slight tightening of the skin around the eyes the only hint of a reaction. Instead, the young envoy merely bowed his head again.

"It would be an honour to join you." He smiled a porcelain smile. "It would be fascinating to see what the famed Lady Eilhart shares with our Witcher allies. After all, your knowledge of our Temerian ways is unmatched. Who knows what precious nuggets of wisdom you might choose to share?"

The Sorceress' eyes flashed at the comment, her gaze meeting that of the envoy with a dangerous flash. Again Frederick had to admire the young man's temerity in choosing to clash with the Lady, sparring words with her most skillfully. The young adept noted Lennart's eyes gleam with a mixture of fascination and amusement, the political undercurrents of the pair's comments easily caught by the experienced Witcher. After what felt like a long time, but in reality was a scant couple of seconds, Lady Filippa spoke up again.

"Actually, perhaps you might share some of your wisdom with us, Ser Jost?" She asked sweetly. "I am sure you have many insights that you might share with our students."

"Oh, I am no tutor." Jost quickly replied with a modest smirk. "I assure you, I have nothing of value to contribute."

"Please, Ser Jost." Lady Filippa quickly countered.

As she spoke, Frederick noted a swift movement of her hand, a subtle flicker of the fingers that seemed to merely be underlining her words. It was all too easy for the former mage's apprentice, however, to sense the outpouring of power in the direction of the envoy, a quick arcane nudge directed at his mind.

"Don't sell yourself short." The Sorceress continued. "Why not tell the youngsters something of the intricacies of the Temerian court? That is a topic you are all too familiar with, I am sure."

Jost straightened, eyes gaining a somewhat glossy, glazed look as something inside him shifted, all resistance melting away. When he spoke again, his tone had grown flat, lifeless.

"Yes... of course..." He seemed to trail off quietly, a little puzzled at the sudden shift in his own mind. He shuddered, straightening as he looked to the students before him. "One thing you must understand about any noble court is the hierarchy of power you are walking into. Any lord's inner circle is a mire of political arrangements, uneasy truces and ages-old feuds. Before you involve yourself in such a tangled web, you must know who is who, what connections they have, and where they stand on the social ladder."

The young man stepped up to the table between Ida and Cyrus, hands moving to emphasise his words.

"You must respect familial bonds, and understand how they might affect your own standing. If you attach yourself to the drunken braggart of the family, perhaps you risk alienating yourself from the more level-headed family members who control the manor's purse-strings. If you slight a beloved aunt or sister, you could enrage the lord of the manor. Similarly, if you favour one sibling out of many, you can close off certain doorways that might otherwise make themselves available to you. So you must know, who is the successful businessman of the family, who at court has connections with the neighbouring barony, who may have once performed a valued service for the king.

"For example, a little known fact about the mayor of Bersden, is that he is actually a cousin of one of the king's favourite stablehands. Through this connection, he has learned the king's taste when it comes to mares and stallions he selects to breed into his stock. Using that information, this mayor has become quite wealthy, and now Bersden is a famed supplier to the stables of almost every noble family. The bloodlines that had their beginning there now extend into every sizeable stable across the land. Aside from the wealth this brings to our dear mayor, he has also gained considerable influence among the cultural elite of Temeria. One simple familial connection has created a sprawling web of influence. Understanding that could be key to gaining leverage over a vast number of petty lords and nobles."

Jost coughed, clearing his throat a little. As he blinked, his eyes seemed to focus just a fraction, as if he were awakening from a daze. Something within himself fought against what compelled him, but was still overwhelmed. Frederick could sense the foggy cloud that encircled his mind, almost impossible to withstand. Jost, overwhelmed, ploughed on with his impromptu lesson.

"In addition, you must respect the social hierarchy of those you treat with. Respect those of a higher standing, and do not slight them by paying greater respect to those beneath them. Not unless you wish to demean them and somehow lower their standing amongst their peers. A dangerous task at the best of times, for any noble will guard their respectability viciously if they realise they are being undermined. Always address royalty first, followed by the upper levels of nobility, unless you wish to know what the inside of a hangman's noose feels like. Be wary of those with more subtle methods, for underestimating them may earn you a knife in the back, or worse. Never subvert the social order unless you understand it precisely and are prepared for the consequences. I-"

The envoy's voice hitched, catching in his throat. Out of the corner of his eye, Frederick saw Lady Filippa's hand, previously resting somewhat tensely on the table, relax just a fraction, muscles going slack as she drew it back towards her body. Jost, in response, seemed to sag, breath leaving his body in a loud wheeze. His eyes returned to their normal, wakeful lustre, darting about in puzzlement. He raised a somewhat unsteady hand to his head.

"I don't actually feel quite myself." He murmured, rubbing at his temple. "Maybe I should go sit myself down somewhere..."

As the young envoy staggered off, clumsily working his way through the door, Lady Filippa leaned forward with the suggestion of a smirk dancing at the corner of her mouth.

"I think that's about enough for today. How about we finish with some toasts?"

"An excellent idea!" Lennart, admirably hiding his amusement at the young man's predicament, chimed in. "Learning to make a proper toast would be a fine way to conclude our lessons for today."

The Witcher abruptly turned, moving to the corner of the room, where a small cabinet sat, unusual in its ordinary appearance, given its lavish surroundings. Lennart drew a small key from one of his pockets, opening the cabinet to reveal a small collection of unassuming bottles, none of them labelled. His fingers danced around the necks of a few bottles, the Witcher muttering as he disregarded one after another, seemingly at random. Finally, he selected a bottle, turning back to the table with a moderately proud smile. He passed the bottle to the nearest adept, Krenai, and gestured towards the elegant glasses on the table. Soon enough, everyone present had a small glass of gleaming ruby-red wine in their hand. Lennart lifted his gently, the blood-red liquid swirling inside the glass as he held it up to the light. Without taking his eyes off the glass, he addressed his students.

"A toast is probably one of the most powerful tools you have at your disposal in any social setting." He explained. "It is a public declaration, a grand display. In a toast, you can praise your host, his family, his allies, or you can condemn your enemies. You can invoke the gods, or fate, or simply the goodwill of all present. But a toast is not without its risks. If you use a toast to mock someone, you publicly humiliate them, and this is a slight no man can ignore. If you leave someone out when mentioning those you wish to praise or elevate, they will bear a grudge. A toast, like any of the tools of social intercourse we have spoken of today, is only a useful tool when wielded effectively, otherwise it is a double-edged blade that can cut you down in moments. Construct your toasts wisely, and turn them into weapons that serve you well." He paused, lowering the glass onto the table with a dull clink. "Pay attention to how your toasts are received. Seeing who listens to your words, who drinks along with you, can betray many loyalties. Use that knowledge to your advantage."

"Come!" Lady Filippa waved her glass in the air. "I am eager to try some of this wine. It is a rare moment that Lennart of Beauclair freely gives from his own personal collection. Let us all raise our glasses and put what we have learned to the test."

Around the table, the Nightsabers all grasped their drinks, some cautiously while others, like Darren, raised them eagerly. Fourteen hands rose, shimmering scarlet wine dancing in their glasses. Lennart nodded his permission, and Darren was the first to respond.

"To Master Lennart! A most dangerous man among monsters!"

The Witcher only smirked, a tiny shake of his head betraying his amusement. Hilda was next to speak.

"To putting the nobles of the land in their place!" She crowed. "Show 'em that they're not so special!"

"Does that include you, 'My Lady'?" Ragodar grinned over the rim of his glass. Hilda scowled in return.

"Just because I was born into power does not mean I cannot drink and fight and throw insults with the best of them, Ragodar. Or perhaps you'd like to see just what kind of damage this 'Lady's' fists can do to your face?"

A quiet clearing of the throat from Master Lennart soon stalled the growing bickering between the pair. All eyes turned to Morold.

"To honour!" He toasted quietly, with just the slightest tilt of his glass.

And so, the chain of toasts moved around the classroom, to each of the students, celebrating everything from the Lady Eilhart to the sunny day outside, until finally only Frederick remained. Chewing his lip thoughtfully, the former mage's apprentice finally settled on his words.

"To becoming Witchers." He toasted, to grunts of approval from many of his friends. Lennart chuckled under his breath.

"If you had any idea what becoming a Witcher truly entailed, young student, you would know that it is nothing to be celebrated. Nevertheless, that is your choice of toast, and I cannot fault you for it." The Witcher raised his own glass. "To becoming Witchers, then! May my lessons serve you well in your coming Trials."

There was a short pause as each one around the table sampled their wine, the sweet, heady liquid clearly of the highest quality. A few sighs of delight sounded around the table, with even Lady Eilhart appearing quite taken with the drink. Finally, Lennart lowered his glass to the table.

"The day is always sweeter with a glass of Toussaint's finest." He smiled. "That concludes our lesson for today. Go, spend the rest of the day waving swords around or drinking yourselves senseless in the Tavern. Remember what you have learned today, and apply it in your dealings with the others in the castle. I shall be watching!"

This said, the Witcher turned back to his cabinet, Lady Filippa rising to walk over and speak with him. The Nightsabers, in turn, rose to depart, chattering amongst themselves. Frederick, for his part, kept quiet, chewing over the lessons he had learned that day. All of this for a profession he had believed to be no more complicated than that of a huntsman or mercenary. Clearly there was more to the life of a Witcher than he had first thought.


	38. Chapter 38- The Crossbow

Sunshine trickled down through the sparse few clouds in the sky, the warmth of the summer's morning felt by all within the castle. In the grand courtyard before Kaer Marter, many of the students had gathered, some training with their masters, others taking in the peace of the day and enjoying a brief respite from constant drills and exercises.

Some of the Nightsabers sat upon the wide steps leading down from the palace's main door, Hilda, Darren, Morold and Frederick joined by the jovial Reinmar. The young man had soon made friends among Njall's students, striking up a cordial bond with many of them. At that moment, he was relating a tale from his life prior to coming to the Witchers' guild, much to the amusement of the others.

Frederick leaned back on the cool but warming stone of the steps, taking a moment to turn his gaze to the rest of the courtyard. Here, he saw Master Bastian running some drills with his students, the group known as the Claws. There, Reinicke could be seen in his favoured spot beneath one of the grand trees in the castle's grounds, dozing in the shade. On the archery range, Master Toril could be seen practicing with her bow and arrow, barking commands at a pair of students who assisted her, sending them to retrieve her arrows from where they had struck the targets, unerringly always in the bullseye. Out on the grass, the Godling Tipsy could be seen cavorting with some adepts, chanting a childhood rhyme that was now peppered with more than a few foul innuendoes and expletives, something that Master Algir's group, the Hunters, was immensely proud of.

A few birds swooped in overhead, tweeting a pleasant melody as they turned a few circles in the air. They alighted upon the railing surrounding one of the many balconies, and Frederick for the first time noticed Lady Eilhart watching the students below, her eyes sharp and piercing. Beside her stood a couple of serving girls, heads bowed meekly and lips clamped together in strict silence. As the birds landed close to her, the Sorceress raised a hand at them, the tiny creatures barely flinching. Her fingers slowly, gently curled around the head of one of them, stroking the blue-green feathers carefully. Then, with a flick of her hand, she sent the little birds scattering, a quiet flutter of their wings and a startled squawk echoing their departure.

Frederick turned back to his friends, realising that Reinmar was quickly reaching the climax of his tale. Behind the Phoenix adept, two figures emerged from the castle's main doors, Master Jana, the castle's administrator, and Bertram, the steward. The pair chatted for a brief moment before the stewards nodded in agreement, turning and edging his way around the Nightsabers with careful steps. Jana paused, turning her gaze to the talking Reinmar, and Frederick did the same.

"...so there we were, all six of us in the stable, when suddenly Lord Ghelfi barges in, clad in full armour with four armed guards by his side!" The young man grinned.

"Oh gods!" Darren chuckled. "Why in the world...?"

"Best guess I can make is that a servant had told him some scoundrel had abducted his daughters and he planned to chase after us and rescue them." Reinmar laughed, a deep, throaty boom that echoed across the courtyard infectiously. "So, anyway, we were all silent for a long moment, Ghelfi's face turning a deeper shade of beetroot, before I finally take the jester's cap, place it on my head and, with all the tact I could muster in that situation, I said-"

A sudden, piercing shriek tore across the courtyard, causing all present to start in surprise. The Nightsabers spun where they sat as Jana, clutching at her neck, dropped to her knees, still shouting in pain as a pool of red began to spread across her clothing.

Frederick, along with a few other students, was on his feet in a flash, uncertain of what to do. A powerful hand grasped his shoulder and roughly shoved him aside, Bertram barging through to the stricken administrator. The steward quickly moved the other students aside, revealing the Witcher lying, writhing on the stone slabs. A wooden shaft jutted from the side of her neck, a crossbow bolt. In alarm, Frederick began looking about, until he finally caught a glimpse of a frightened looking face inside the castle doors, eyes glowing bright yellow as they opened wide in fear. The crossbow hung limply from Tipsy's fingers, her mouth opening and closing a few times in silence. Bertram was the next to spot her, his face contorting in anger.

"You... you stupid creature! Look what you've done!" He spat before turning to the adepts. "Someone run and fetch Master Jodok! Quickly!"

Two of the students darted off. Tipsy, meanwhile, simply stood there, watching the injured Jana with confusion and anxiety on her face.

"It, it was just a fun!" She protested. "We were only playing!"

"Does this look like fun to you?!" Bertram bellowed, chest heaving as he struggled to contain himself. "She could die!"

The steward bulled through the growing crowd of adepts, until he stood before the Godling. With a grunt, he snatched the crossbow away from her.

"Where did you get this? Who gave it to you?" He was yelling in her face, the diminutive creature quailing before his wrath.

"I... I just found it, lying around!" She insisted.

"Just lying around?" Bertram scoffed. "Right. There's only one thing lying around here, and I'm looking at it! You were forbidden from going into the armoury, from touching any of our weapons, and you disobeyed!"

"No, no..." Tipsy was shaking visibly. "I didn't!"

"Now look what has happened!" Bertram waved a hand towards Jana. His gaze turned to two students standing nearby. "You two! Grab her! We don't need her running off and hiding."

"No! Wait!" The Godling shrieked desperately. "It was just a fun!"

"Shut up!" Bertram barked, far more fiercely than anyone had ever seen the normally friendly steward. "We'll deal with you later. First, we have to save this woman's life."

Almost on cue, Master Jodok arrived on the scene, pushing his way through the crowd forcefully. As he stepped up next to Jana, Frederick was forced to take in a deep breath, still startled by Jodok's appearance after all this time. The Witcher was tall, his frame gaunt, his features weathered by years of experience. An intimidating enough sight as he already was, the Witcher bore a grisly scar that tore across his face, from his brow, across the bridge of his nose, and down to his jawline, an old, grievous injury that would likely have killed a lesser man. The Witcher's eyes gleamed a feral yellow, inspiring fear in even the bravest of hearts. He scowled as he regarded the fallen Jana, pursing his lips as he knelt next to her. He glanced at the wound for just a moment before barking out a few orders.

"I need hot water and linens, a lot of them!" He barked. "The rest of you, step back and give me some fucking room to work!"

The adepts leapt to obey, several running in the direction of the kitchens to get what Jodok called for. All stood in silence as they waited for their return, the only noises being the pained gasps of Jana and the quiet, fearful whimpers of Tipsy, held firm in the grasp of her two captors. Jodok leaned over the injury again.

"I need to stop the bleeding." He muttered, reaching into a pouch at his side and producing a wad of white cloth, pressing that over the injury carefully to try and stem the flow of blood.

"Swallow potion?" Bertram asked.

"Not with that bolt in there." Jodok answered. "If she tries to swallow anything, she'll just drive the tip further in, and she could rip open a main bloodway. Then she would bleed out in seconds. I'll need you to hold her still, old friend, while I pull it out." He paused. "I will also need your dagger."

The steward nodded silently, clearly understanding Jodok's intent. He reached towards the back of his waistband, producing a wickedly sharp blade. Normally, the steward could be seen using said blade to carve up apples while lounging on one of the stone lions of the courtyard, but now seemingly the Witcher Master had a new purpose for it. Bertram quickly passed the knife to his comrade and, kneeling down, placed both his hands on Jana's shoulders, pinning her in place.

"Whatever happens, keep looking at me." Bertram commanded the Witcher. "Look me in the eyes, Jana, and don't move."

The fallen administrator hissed between clenched teeth, resisting the urge to nod her head. Instead, she merely blinked her eyes affirmatively. Jodok, working at her side, pulled a wooden spoon from one of his pouches.

"Bite down on this." He told her coldly. "So you don't bite through your tongue. This will hurt a great deal."

Jana's teeth flashed as, with a pained growl, she bit down. Her eyes flashed with a wild fear in them, but she could do nothing as the older Witcher's hands moved about her neck. Jodok spared her one final glance.

"I'm going to pull it out on three, understand?" His icy, emotionless eyes glinted as he met her gaze, not even looking at his hands as he worked. "One, two...-"

Before he hit the third number, before Jana could tense up in anticipation of the pain, Jodok yanked the bolt out, the wooden shaft tearing free with a wet, meaty ripping sound that sickened Frederick to the stomach almost as much as the blood-curdling scream that followed, somewhat muffled by the handle of the spoon in Jana's mouth. As her chest emptied of all air, expelled in that unearthly, inhuman shriek, her screams swiftly changed into a muted, gurgling whimper, throaty gasps for air that were clouded with the thick scum of blood, spittle and mucus all mixing together.

"Three." Jodok said dispassionately, the bolt clattering on the steps beside him.

The Witcher then raised the blade, fingers tracing along its edge in a delicate pattern, the keen edge of the knife glowing with a sudden surge of energy. The flow of magical power was evident to all nearby who wore a medallion, the Igni sign the Witcher cast calling upon a great deal of focused, concentrated energy in a short burst. Soon, the metal of the blade began to glow orange, the tang of smoke filling the air. Jodok spared Jana another glance, the ghost of remorse in his eyes.

"Hold still." With those two cold, lifeless words, the knife moved quickly.

The hiss of burning flesh was repugnant, as was the smell that followed in its wake. Jana's lungs, so recently strained from so much agony, found themselves laboured again as she screamed with renewed power, the Witcher's breast heaving as she wept openly at the pain. The blade withdrew, finally, and the Witcher slumped onto the cold flagstones, almost senseless. Jodok, his work with the knife done, then pulled a vial from his belt, the vibrant red fluid inside moving viscously as he shook it. He popped the cork, quickly feeding Jana the whole concoction. Barely conscious, she had enough presence of mind to swallow the mixture, wincing in torment at every contraction of her throat. This done, Jodok set to work cleaning her wound a little more, the adepts he had commanded returning with linen and water steaming from the kitchen. Moments later, a dressing was set, and the tall Witcher helped his stricken sister to her feet, turning back to the castle doors.

There, barring the way, was an apoplectic Treysse, the Grandmaster's features boiling with anger as he regarded Jana's condition. A hasty jerk of his head ordered Jodok to carry her inside, before the wizened Witcher turned his furious gaze to the Godling. Tipsy shrank back visibly from his almost tangible wrath.

"Lock this creature up instantly." Treysse's voice was eerily flat, lifeless. If Frederick didn't know any better, he'd have thought that maybe the Grandmaster was unmoved by the sudden, unexpected turn of events. "Then have Algir, Dirk and Vreni report to my study at once. This dalliance with untamed forces has gone on long enough! Time to put an end to this. Take her away!"

"No! Wait!" Tipsy shrieked as the two adepts began to drag her away. "Y-you don't understand! It was just a fun! Nobody was supposed to get hurt!"

Treysse merely glowered at her in silence, the heat of his gaze able to boil water, such was his anger. The Godling's voice rose as she was slowly led away, fighting against her captors.

"Wait! Please!" She begged, tears dancing at the corners of her eyes. "I didn't mean it! You have to believe me!"

She turned from the stony, silent Treysse, looking to each of the gathered adepts imploringly. For a moment, her golden eyes alighted on Frederick, then danced to the next student.

"You do believe me, don't you?" She asked desperately.

As she did so, Frederick felt a tug on his heart. He wanted to believe, so badly. He wanted nothing more than to accept her at her word. But the Grandmaster's judgement could not be argued with. He bowed his head in shame. Tipsy, getting no response from anyone, writhed in the grip of the two adepts frantically.

"You can't do this!" She screamed. "It was just a fun! It was just a fun! IT WAS JUST A FUN!"

The Godling's tear-filled screams ripped through the breast of each adept present, numbing them to the core. All any of them could do was stare at one another, shocked, dazed, disbelieving, as the tiny creature's awful cries slowly faded, finally cut off by the slamming of one of the immense iron doors of the castle's dungeon.


	39. Chapter 39- Archery

A faint breeze shifted through the trees, stirring the leaves ever so slightly, their faint rustling the only sound that greeted the Nightsabers as they arrived at the archery range that had been constructed just on the edge of the training ground, in the shadow of the forest. The adepts looked about curiously, not seeing their latest instructor anywhere.

Several targets had been set up on the training range, some typical circular targets, a few dummies clad in simple cloth armour, a couple of targets hanging upon ropes fastened to the branches of the trees above, swinging in the breeze. Curious, Darren stepped forward, running a hand over one of the training dummies, fingers pausing as he came across some holes in the armour, tiny circular punctures.

"Damn..." The adept muttered. "So much for this armour. If this were a real person, he'd be dead!"

The whistling noise was almost imperceptible on the breeze, barely giving the adepts any warning before an arrow materialised in the target, a hair's breadth from Darrren's hand. The normally unshakable Child of Destiny started, staggering back a step as he turned to find the source of the projectile.

In the shade of the trees, some hundred yards or so away, Master Toril lowered her bow, narrowed eyes regarding each of the adepts in turn. Slowly, she rose from her kneeling position, lithe frame moving with deliberate grace as she approached her new students. Much like when the Witcher had led Frederick's half of the Nightsabers on their first hunt, Toril's movements put the young adept in mind of a forest predator, stalking effortlessly through the trees. In moments, she was upon them.

"Students." She nodded curtly. "Welcome to Archery class. Some of you already know me, I am Master Toril. Today I plan to teach you how to handle a bow without putting an arrow into your own foot, so listen closely to what I have to tell you!"

The Witcher stalked around the adepts, approaching the training dummy Darren was standing next to. With a practiced motion, she tugged the arrow free, brushing away the straw that clung to the head. She turned the projectile over in her hands, fingers brushing at the red and black stained fletching.

"First up, lets teach you the basics." She indicated the foot of a nearby tree, where a heavy burlap sack lay. "Grab a bow and a half dozen arrows each."

As the Nightsabers moved to do so, the Witcher stalked after them, arms folded as she watched.

"So which of you can tell me some of the uses a Witcher might have for a bow and arrow?" She asked. A long, silent moment passed, Toril's brow furrowing s her eyebrow quirked upwards. "No one? Come on, surely one of you can come up with a suggestion? There's so many!"

"Dragons?" Morold suggested.

"Hah!" Toril's laugh was a short, sharp bark. "I'd love to see you try and take a dragon down with just a bow and arrow. I reckon you're good at screaming." She winked. "But you're on the right track. A bow and arrow can certainly help you to take on flying creatures. Smaller ones, like harpies, wyverns, sirens. Even with the bigger ones, they can help you get their attention, maybe even force them to come down within range of your blades." She began pacing. "A bow and arrow is also useful when you're outnumbered, as you can strike at a distance from a place of safety, perhaps even remaining unseen. The Scoia'tael are famed for striking unseen from the safety of the trees, vanishing before their enemies even realise they are under attack. You can't do that with a big fucking hammer and shield like the Dwarves use. And, probably the most useful, you can catch your supper with them."

"Surely a sword would make short enough work of anything we plan to eat?" Krenai scoffed.

"You think so?" A wry grin twisted Toril's lips. "Okay, maybe we'll let you chase down a bunny with your sword, then you can find out just how hard it is. And while you're exhausted and starving, we can enjoy what our bows and arrows have caught us." She clapped her hands together. "Alright! Everyone got a bow? Good. First, we'll cover a basic shot..."

The Witcher turned to face the targets, unslinging the bow from her back. She reached down to her hip, drawing a red-fletched arrow from the quiver hanging there. She lifted the bow to present to her students as she loaded the arrow.

"Grip the bow with your off-hand, and load the arrow on the side facing towards your body. The arrow should just slide over the body of your hand as it leaves the bow, so be careful that the fletching doesn't cut your hand open. Secure the arrow on the bowstring with one finger above it on the string, and two below to give it stability. Make sure that you turn the arrow so that the fletching won't strike the bow as the arrow leaves the string, otherwise it may go astray. Don't grip the string too tightly, otherwise you'll distort your shot, and don't pull back on the bowstring until you're ready to take a shot, you only want the string and the bow itself to be under tension when you need to use it, not a moment longer, otherwise you risk damaging the bow."

She shifted her feet, moving so her left side turned towards the targets.

"Always lead with your off-hand side. Make a straight line between your feet and the target, and keep your feet about shoulder-width apart, to make sure you are stable. If your body is not stable, you'll have a hard time shooting straight." She wriggled her feet a little, grinding her boots deeper into the soil. "Once you've got your footing, raise your bow, making sure it's straight, and relax your body. Stand straight, try not to tense up too much. As the bow rises, begin pulling the arrow back on the string. Try to keep the tension in your back muscles, pull from there. Take in a deep breath as you draw, and pull the string back in a single, smooth motion. Feel your chest expand and your back tighten as you draw." Her voice grew tense as the bow flexed in her hand, the arrow quivering where it lay across the back of her hand. "Once it's drawn back, the arrow should line up with a fixed point on your face, I recommend your cheekbone, so that you can easily take aim. Gaze down the arrow, and then quickly loose-"

The Witcher's fingers twitched, and the arrow leapt from her bow, the string thrumming loudly in the air. The projectile whistled towards one of the targets, hitting it dead in the centre. Toril grunted with satisfaction, pulling another arrow from her quiver.

"Don't take too long trying to aim. Your arms will tire quickly if you keep your bow drawn for too long. Make it so that drawing and loosing the arrow all happens in a swift, smooth motion, without overthinking it. In time, aiming and finding your target will become a second nature to you. Remember to breathe in as you draw, and exhale as you release. If you hold your breath too long in between, your head will begin to swim and your eyes will lose focus, so you don't have long to find your target. You can't guarantee a good hit if your vision is filling with black clouds."

Another arrow whistled through the air, striking the target a hair away from the first. In a blink, another arrow was loosed, then another, until Toril's quiver was empty. The target bristled with red-fletched arrows, all within an inch of the centre. The Witcher turned to face her students, a satisfied smile on the corner of her mouth.

"Your turn." She said brightly. "But first, go get me my arrows."

Cyrus quickly scurried to obey, hurrying back with the bundle in moments. Toril accepted them graciously.

"Okay. Time for you all to have a go. A couple of things to go over before I let you loose on my range. Never point your bow at another student. Only draw your bow when I tell you. I will tell you to nock, draw and loose, and you'll do so exactly when and how I tell you. Anyone who fires without my instruction will have to face me, and I'm not about to go easy on you just because you're Njall's students."

The Nightsabers nodded silently, and Toril nodded her approval.

"Good. Now, let's make it interesting, what do you say?" She grinned broadly. "Split into pairs. You'll all take turns firing. Those with the least arrows that hit the target will have to do a push-up for every arrow that misses."

Frederick suppressed a groan at the suggestion, already all too aware of the clumsy feeling of the weapon in his hands. Instead he slowly approached the training range, finding himself paired up with Colin. The duo nodded to one another silently, turning to face the target. Frederick stepped up and, doing his best to follow Master Toril's demonstration, assumed the best stance he could. As the Witcher barked out her orders, he raised his bow, drew the string taut, and released.

The arrow darted through the air towards the target, before whistling past it and vanishing somewhere in the distant greenery of the forest. Frederick cursed under his breath, while some of his fellow Nightsabers snickered quietly. Toril only grunted.

"You'll be finding that, adept!" She barked gruffly. "Now, first line, swap places with your partners."

Red faced, Frederick stepped back to make way for Colin. He could already tell it was going to be a long lesson.

~o~0~o~

Frederick gasped for breath as he completed the last push-up, fifty repetitions now behind him. Next to him, still cursing his team mate under his breath, Colin finished his share of the exercise, the duo standing to face Toril and the rest of the grinning Nightsabers. The Witcher nodded, satisfied.

"Okay, now that that's over, let's do something a little more elaborate..."

As the Witcher gestured for her students to gather around, the Nightsabers forming a ring around her, the still-breathless Frederick took a step back, reaching for the small leather flask attached to his belt. As he greedily gulped at the sweet water within, he turned his eyes to the forest.

All was still within the woodlands, save for the rustling of a few shifting leaves and the faint twitter of a distant bird. Serenity reigned over the countryside for miles all around.

It was barely a flicker, a faint shadow slipping between two trees, but enough to grab hold of Frederick's attention. The adept narrowed his eyes, taking a step towards the forest, but he could see nothing else. He shrugged. Perhaps a trick of the light.

"Adept!" Toril's snapped command brought the young mage's focus back to his comrades. "Listen up! I'm not going over this a second time because you weren't paying attention."

She turned back to the rest of her class, dropping down to one knee.

"Sometimes shooting from a standing position won't be possible. Maybe you need to stay in hiding, or you're firing on a hill. Sometimes a shot will need more stability, or just a different angle. You need to know the proper form for firing from a kneeling position."

She lifted her bow, folding her legs under herself until she was sitting on her heels. She straightened her back, laying her bow across her lap, and drove a few arrows into the dirt beside herself.

"Just as with firing while standing, you should face your target side-on, to give you the most room to draw your bowstring back. Keep your back straight, rotate smoothly as you bring your bow to bear, and control your breathing as you move. If you need to, rise and straighten up as you draw. Do it all in one motion, to lessen the chance that your movement will alert your target." She shifted a little, turning so that she could stretch out her right leg to her side, reaching back as she turned her bow to her left. "Personally I prefer to kneel like this. I feel it gives me a bit more stability." She paused, flashing a grin at her students as she winked. "And it looks better if anyone happens to be watching."

She fired another arrow, once again flawlessly finding her target. As she stood, dusting off her knees, she gestured broadly at the students.

"Feel free to give it a shot. No games this time. I think the little Mage's apprentice couldn't take any more push-ups!" She chuckled.

The Witcher stepped around the students, making way for them to get at the range again. As she passed around behind them, Frederick noticed her pause, her breath hitching in her throat. He turned to follow her gaze, glancing back to the same spot he'd noticed earlier, where he had thought he'd seen something moving before.

Now, a figure stood there. The distance made it hard to distinguish any features, but Frederick could see that they were slight, possibly a woman, clad in simple greenish-brown clothes. They seemed to be looking directly at the class, specifically Toril. As Frederick turned to look at them, they slipped behind a tree, almost hiding completely, although they continued to peer around the trunk at the Witcher and her adepts. Frederick felt a spike of anxiety at the sudden, unexpected audience, not made any less by Toril's concern, evident in the Witcher Master's features.

"Master?" Frederick asked quietly, not wanting to draw the attention of the whole class. "Who is that?"

"I... don't know." Toril's slitted eyes narrowed. "But she obviously wants our attention."

"She's been watching for a while now." The Mage's apprentice murmured. "I saw her moving through the woods a while back."

"Really?" Toril's eyebrow rose questioningly. "Then perhaps you should be the one to go and ask her what she is doing here. Take a couple of your friends with you, quietly. We don't want to scare her off, or raise any suspicions just yet."

Frederick turned, noting that both Morold and Cyrus had ambled over, spotting the Master's distraction. The young man nodded to his friends, and the trio set off, soon vanishing into the woods and leaving a pensive Master Toril behind them.


	40. Chapter 40- The Elves

The forest closed in around the three adepts, and oppressive green shroud that seemed to thicken the air. Frederick could feel drowsiness tugging at the corners of his mind. The temptation to find a solid tree trunk and curl up at its roots was strong. Somewhere close by, a stream could be heard burbling along on its course, while a few buzzing insects darted through the air overhead.

Ahead, the slight figure that had drawn the attention of the trio kept moving, flitting through the trees like an elusive sprite, never keeping still for more than a moment. Occasionally she would spare a backwards glance, to make sure her pursuers remained on her trail, but they never seemed to gain any ground on her.

Finally, after at least a couple of miles' journey into the heart of the woodlands, the strange figure halted, turning to face the adepts. She waited patiently as they approached, a tree stump providing a spot for her to sit upon, folding her legs gracefully under herself.

Curious, Frederick reached up to the medallion on his neck, clasping it tightly as he partially closed his eyes, their slower pace allowing him to divert a little of his attention. The woods pulsed around them, naturally saturated with primal power, pregnant with potential. The former Mage's apprentice couldn't say for certain whether the stranger had deliberately led them to such a place, or if their presence there was just a coincidence. Regardless, the young Witcher hopeful braced himself, prepared in case their quarry had led them into some kind of trap.

As they approached the woman, for they could now see that she was undoubtedly female, Frederick spared a moment to examine her more closely. She was breathtakingly beautiful, soft features bearing a kindly smile, eyes gleaming with a fierce intelligence and an ages-old wisdom. A cascade of brown hair tumbled down over her shoulders, some woven into delicate plaits, the rest left to tumble freely, wildly, while through those oaken tresses poked two small ears, the points of which betrayed the stranger's true nature.

"An Elf..." Morold breathed. The woman's smile widened a little as she bowed her head.

"Greetings to you, vatt'ghern." Her voice was soft, melodious, but somewhere behind the word Frederick could sense a granite strength, something ancient, unmovable. "My name is Ialeth."

"My Lady." Morold whispered as he bowed low, cheeks flushed as he spoke. "I am Morold. These are my brothers-in-arms, Cyrus and Frederick."

Each of the adepts bowed in turn, Frederick keeping his head raised as he did so. He couldn't say what it was, but something about the Elf's gaze entranced him, and he could not look away, her eyes speaking of so many things he wanted to ask her about. And yet, after a lifetime of studying words and learning how best to use them, he found himself at a loss as to what to say, so elected to say nothing.

"Toril did not come with you?" Ialeth's eyebrows twitched at the question, a ghost of disappointment in her expression even as resignation filled her eyes. "A shame, but not unexpected. Her absence would raise questions, and she is ever the cautious one."

"You know Master Toril?" Cyrus asked curiously.

"I... know of her." Ialeth dodged his question. "We have some friends in common."

"Is that why you were watching us?" Frederick asked, finally finding his tongue. "To find Master Toril?"

"Only partly." The elf answered. "We have travelled a long way to get here, to seek the help of the vatt'ghern."

"We?" Cyrus asked cautiously.

"Forgive me." Ialeth smiled, bowing her head. "I had to be cautious, had to make certain you would not attack one of the Aen Seidhe on sight. We've already been through so much..."

She gestured, a small twitch of the hand, and a quiet rustling sound made the three adepts spin around, suddenly realising that they were not alone. Materialising from the woods, almost wraith-like in their silent movement, two more Elves cautiously approached the adepts. The first, with auburn hair woven into tight braids close to her scalp, a grey cloak draped across her shoulder, approached confidently, eyeing the Witcher hopefuls with a careful gaze, but making no move to avoid them. The second, however, was far more cautious. She circled around the adepts, giving them a wide berth. Eventually she moved to stand behind Ialeth, still watching the three Nightsabers through narrowed eyes.

"These are my kin, Eloena and Lauriel." Ialeth gestured to each of them in turn. "We have travelled a great distance together to come here. They have been faithful companions to me for many years."

Ialeth's words quieted to a faint murmur in Frederick's ears as his gaze drifted to the last of the Elves to show herself, the one called Lauriel. As he took in her soft features, the gentle shape of her deep hazel eyes, the slight curve of her lips, the deep brown, almost black tangle of hair that washed over her shoulders, the former Mage's apprentice found his pulse suddenly racing, his mind filling with a thick, confusing fog. The young Elf was truly beautiful, even as she frowned at the adepts and reached for the hilt of the dirk strapped to her thigh. She noted the young adept's gaze, and her hand moved to the more substantial sword that she had sheathed at her hip. Her head tilted to the side, mahogany tresses shifting to reveal the point of one of her ears. Her expression, already sour with wariness and mistrust, darkened as she met Frederick's stare, challenging him with a downward twitch of the corners of her mouth. Deep, almost black eyes flashed angrily before turning away from him.

Suddenly getting a grip on himself, Frederick tried to swallow the coarse sensation that filled his throat, tongue suddenly dry and rasping in his mouth. Shaking his head, he tried to draw in a deep breath, an awkwardly tight chest making even that simple action quite difficult for him. With all of his willpower, he just barely managed to turn his attention back to Ialeth as Morold spoke up.

"Why are you here?" He folded his arms across his chest. "You must know there are Blue Stripes camping near to here, and there are many Witchers who would gladly collect your ears for the bounty Temeria has on anyone suspected of being with the Scoia'tel."

At that last comment, both Eloena and Laurie tensed, the latter shifting her grip on her sword, but Ialeth reached out with a calming gesture, her expression remaining serene.

"It's true, there are many here who would wish us harm." She admitted. "But not all. Toril is, or was, a friend, and she chose to send you because she knew you would mean us no harm." She paused, looking up to the trees overhead. "This place was once my home. I know these lands intimately."

"Then why did you approach our class?" Cyrus asked. "What is it you want?"

"We've travelled far." Ialeth answered. "Our supplies run low, and there is little game around here. There are strange creatures roaming the woods that have scared away the normal beasts that would live in these woods."

"Meinard's experiments." Frederick muttered. "They are dangerous." He glanced to Lauriel, who returned his worried glance with a scornful flick of her hair. "You should be wary of camping out in the open."

"We have been careful." Ialeth replied. "We have a great deal of experience in remaining unseen while moving through the wilds. But the damage these creatures have wrought on the surrounding lands... there is nothing for us to gather up to eat."

"I'm sure we can bring you something from the castle." Morold offered quickly. "And something to drink, also. The days have been long and hot of late, some clean water would surely be of use to you."

"Thank you." Ialeth smiled. "We did not expect such kindness from the vatt'ghern, but I had hoped we might find some individuals such as yourselves that would show us compassion. Please, return to us here as soon as you can."

With these final words, the adepts turned from the Elves, heading back in the direction of the castle. Frederick, lagging behind the other two, paused for just a moment at the edge of the clearing, sparing a backwards glance to the three mysterious women. Ialeth, noticing his gaze, smiled warmly, offering a wave of farewell, while Lauriel, still pacing about anxiously, only offered him a wary glare, her hand not having left the hilt of her weapon. Frederick turned back to his fellow adepts, and within moments, left the clearing behind, the Elves vanishing from view.


	41. Chapter 41- Lauriel

"What do you think you are doing?"

Frederick froze in place as the loud, booming voice reached his ears. He turned slowly, armful of apples still guiltily on show.

Behind the adept, hands on hips, Bertram frowned, chewing his lip thoughtfully. The steward's beard shifted as he regarded Frederick with a critical eye.

"I cannot believe this." The steward sighed dramatically. "One of our adepts, raiding the larder like a common bandit!"

He began pacing, while Frederick lowered his head shamedly.

"And he doesn't even have the decency to filch the good stuff!"

Frederick's head snapped back up at Bertram's good-natured chuckle. The steward was now beaming widely, teeth flashing behind his grin.

"Don't waste your time with apples, boy." He smiled. "There's half a wheel of good cheese from Touissant in the back there, and three warm loaves cooling in the kitchen. Make sure to swing by the cellar, I've left a couple of bottles of cider chilling in a bucket there. Help yourself to one, but make sure to leave the other for old Bertram!"

Frederick opened his mouth to reply, but words evaded him. Finally, his voice returned.

"I'm... not in trouble?"

"You think you are the first adept to raid the kitchen for a secret picnic in the woods?" Bertram's belly shivered as he laughed. "Go, have your fun. And whoever the young maid is, just be sure her father doesn't find out! We Witchers have a bad enough reputation among the villagers as it is!"

Frederick opened his mouth to correct the steward, to explain that he wasn't looking to bed some peasant from one of the nearby villages, but common sense stayed his tongue. Better that less people knew about the Elves, at least for now. He quietly muttered his thanks to Bertram, before scurrying out of the larder, apples still fighting to roll free of his grasp.

~o~0~o~

"You have our thanks, Vatt'ghern!" Ialeth thanked the adepts profusely, eyes widening as she surveyed the spoils of their raid on the castle. "Truly, I did not expect quite so much, or such luxuries. It would seem that the Witchers live well within the walls of Kaer Marter."

"Master Jana has a shrewd eye, and a knack for bartering." Morold explained. "And Bertram could probably convince a dryad to sell him firewood!"

"Good friends to have!" Ialeth smiled.

The Nightsabers had once more joined the Elves in the forest, a few bulging packs of food, wine and other treats from the castle to aid Ialeth and her kinswomen. The older Elf had quickly invited the trio to sit with them, offering a spot by their campfire as the evening drew in. Eloena and Lauriel remained cold, distant, keeping the fire between themselves and the Witchers. Frederick, chancing a glance or two in Lauriel's direction, would sometimes catch the Elf regarding him, but her eyes would quickly flash with hostile fire, and she would avert her gaze swiftly.

"Once more, you have our thanks." Ialeth spoke over the fire, turning her warm eyes toward each adept in turn. "This is heartier fare than we are used to. I haven't enjoyed such a feast in years!" Her smile tightened a little bit. "Not since I last dwelt within my home, with my family."

"Where is your home?" Cyrus asked. "Where have you come from?"

"I have no home, not anymore." The Elf explained quietly. "Much that the Aen Seidhe once possessed has been lost to our conflict with the Humans."

"Including your home?" Cyrus pursued.

"Yes." Ialeth nodded, a stray braid of hair tumbling from behind her ear to swing past her cheek, going a little way towards hiding the look of sorrow that washed across her gentle expression. Carefully, she tucked the loose braid back into place, quickly hiding her pained expression. "Many years ago, before there was even an idea of a war between Elves and Humans, my family lived in a grand palace, the most beautiful in all the land you now call Temeria. The Humans took it during their conflict with the Aen Seidhe, with great bloodshed on both sides. Eventually, once my people were driven back, and the castle was given to the Witchers, a home for them to train their newest recruits."

"Kaer Marter was once your home?" Frederick asked, eyes wide. The Elf nodded.

"So why have you come back here?" Morold asked. "To see it? You know the Temerians will not allow you inside. I doubt whether any of the Masters would stand for it, even."

"You speak the truth." Ialeth bowed her head in agreement. "I doubt I could even walk the halls for but a moment before someone would try to take my ears, and my head along with it. Nevertheless, I had to return, one last time."

"Meaning..." Frederick began, although he suspected the conclusion Ialeth would give. The Elf quickly confirmed his suspicions.

"That the time of my passing will soon be upon me, yes." Her eyes gleamed, not with sorrow or fear, but rather with a colossal weariness. "We Elves live a long time, but all things must end, eventually. I will die very soon, and I have returned to the home of my family to find peace before the time comes."

"You're dying?" Morold asked in alarm. "Are you sick? Maybe we can help! Master Jodok might know something, or maybe Vester-"

"Would not be able to help." Ialeth interrupted. "Even the most powerful of magics cannot overcome nature. Old age can be delayed, perhaps, but never truly defeated, and I am very old."

Frederick suddenly became aware of just how small the Elf was, how she seemed to buckle under an immense weight on her shoulders. The light that her presence cast across the minds of all present at the campfire, while still powerful, seemed to be fading, like a candle guttering in the breeze. The young adept couldn't help but feel a pang of sadness at the thought of such a life, so full of wisdom and experience, fading into nothing. A lump bobbed in his throat, keeping him from being able to offer any words of reassurance, but he didn't need to. Ialeth looked at him, and he could see in her gaze that she understood his feelings, perhaps even better than he did himself. She offered a comforting smile.

"Do not be sorrowed." She reassured. "I am not gone yet, and I have lived a long and good life. What matters is not how we depart this world, but how we leave it in our wake. I am at peace with the mark I have left upon this world and the people within it."

"Then what can we do to help you?" Cyrus said, his face stoic as he spoke. "You want us to try and get you inside the castle?"

"Nothing so difficult." Ialeth replied. "When my family and I were forced to leave our home, I had to forsake a few treasured belongings. We had no time to take anything with us, save for the clothing on our backs. If you could bring them to me, I would be most indebted to you."

"What were these items?" Morold asked, stroking his chin. "Where would we find them?"

"They are small items, no more than trinkets, really." The Elf explained. "A bag I had as a child, a doll, and a portrait. Just some things that meant a lot to me."

"Okay... so where do we find the bag? What does it look like?" Cyrus asked.

"It was small... blue." Ialeth closed her eyes as she dredged up the memory. "My mother grew a small garden in the Castle's conservatory. I used to play in there while she tended to the orange trees my father brought back for her from his travels to the south." She smiled fondly. "I used to have a little set of tools I would keep in that bag, so that I could join her in working the soil and looking after the trees until they bore fruit. I left it in the conservatory on the day the castle was attacked, in the store with my mother's other tools. I doubt anyone would have taken it, the items inside have no material value."

"And the doll?" Morold chimed in.

"It was a Leshen, about this big..." She held her hands about half a foot apart. "It was left in my chambers, but may have been moved. Look anywhere that the Temerians might have cast all the old and unusable things that they didn't loot and sell off immediately." She paused, just a moment's hesitation. "The portrait may be more difficult to find. It was small, easy to carry. It showed my mother, clad in a full set of armour. The picture itself is not worth anything to a Human collector, but the frame may have sold for a fair amount of coin. The picture may have been removed from the frame, so you may be looking for a roll of canvas."

"It's not a lot to go on, but it's a start." Morold sighed. "We will try our hardest to find them for you, Ialeth."

"If there is anyone you can trust in the castle, enlist their aid." Ialeth said. "Two sets of eyes can cover far more ground than one."

"We shall." The young Nightsaber vowed. "We will return with your belongings as soon as we can, I promise."

~o~0~o~

Thick, choking dust coated the inside of Frederick's throat, keeping him even from coughing. Instead, the young adept could only gag as he turned away from the piles of old, dusty furniture that filled the castle's storeroom. Ancient, empty wooden chests piled on top of one another concealed one wall, while shelves that bowed under the weight of many old, ruined books filled the centre of the room. To one side, a stack of heavy canvas sacking had once hidden a series of beautiful paintings, all carefully removed from their frames and rolled up for storing. The frames themselves could not be found, presumably sold off after the castle was first ransacked and occupied.

The young Mage's apprentice couldn't help but wonder at the trove of ancient keepsakes hidden away in the depths of the castle. Why hadn't the Witchers done away with all traces of the previous residents? Why hadn't Treysse purged the halls of all Elven remains? The Nightsaber found himself pondering what the motivations of the Cat School's Grandmaster might have been. Perhaps someday he would get a chance to broach the subject with the normally stern, unapproachable Witcher.

The Nightsabers, along with a few other adepts that had expressed an interest in helping out, had found the storeroom in one of the castle's many wings, lock stiff from years of not being used. One adept, a small girl from Gedymin's Phoenixes, had made swift work of the lock with a few twisted pieces of metal and some oil she produced from a pouch on her belt, something that the other adepts chose not to question to deeply. Instead, in the now darkened halls, they quickly moved inside the room, careful not to make a sound and alert anyone else in the castle to their hunt.

"I think I've found something!" The hoarse, whispering voice echoed out from behind a stained, dusty chaise-longue.

The voice belonged to Hadewig, an adept that the Nightsabers had roped into helping them search the castle. Along with a couple of his fellow Phoenixes, Hadewig had been all to happy to help out, eager to meet the Elves who had once lived within the castle's walls. For some reason Frederick had yet to fathom, how friends referred to Hadewig as "the Chosen", with wide grins on their faces. The adept made a mental note to investigate that further.

Hadewig stood up, dusting off the knees of his bright scarlet trousers with one hand while the other supported a small square of canvas, perhaps a foot in height and width. He stalked over to the other adepts, carefully laying the image on the nearest surface he could find, the top of a large wooden crate.

"That has to be it!" Morold breathed reverently, and Frederick had to agree with him.

The picture depicted an Elven woman, clad in fine mail and plate armour. Elegant designs danced across her breast, while an ornate helmet was tucked under one arm. Her features were sharp, fierce, but hid a kindness and warmth that reminded each of the adepts of Ialeth in an instant. Frederick reached out to pat Hadewig on the shoulder in congratulations.

"Great work." He commended. "Just the doll and the bag to go!"

The other adepts groaned, turning back to the crowded storeroom and its near-endless contents. It was going to be a long night.

~o~0~o~

"Thank you, vatt'ghern. You've aided me far more than you know."

Ialeth gently took the items from the adept's outstretched hands, looking at each of them with a quiet, contemplative look in her eyes. She lifted the image of her mother, tilting it this way and that as she took in every detail. When she glanced over to the three adepts, Morold, Hadewig and Frederick, the young Witcher hopefuls could feel the sadness in her gaze, tinged with the unmistakable warmth of happiness.

"I never thought I would get to see her face again." She murmured. "Thank you, from the deepest depths of my heart."

"It was nothing." Morold shrugged. "We are happy to help in any way we can."

"Then I was truly fortunate to come across you." The Elf replied. She paused, looking back to the picture, before continuing, her voice trembling a little. "If you will excuse me, I think I should like a few brief moments by myself. To... remember."

With that, the older Elf turned on her heel, striding off deeper into the woods. The adepts turned away, understanding of her wish to be alone. All of them, taken from their lives to join the Witchers at Kaer Marter in one way or another, could at least in a small way relate to the feeling of being parted from one's family. Instead, the trio looked back to the campfire, where the other adepts recruited into their cause waited, most clustered around the fire with Eloena, the young Elf showing them a small trinket that she was working on, a charm that she claimed would protect her from dangerous spirits and curses. Lauriel, meanwhile, had deliberately distanced herself from the group, leaning against a tree with her arms folded across her chest, barely constrained hostility radiating out from her. She watched the Witchers, clustered around her kinswoman, with obvious scorn.

Without even thinking about it, Frederick found himself sidling over to the dark-haired Elf, unnoticed by Lauriel until he stood right by her. The Elf turned from the others to glance at him, then averted her gaze.

"What do you want?" She simmered.

"To talk." Frederick shrugged. "Is that so odd?"

"Hmmf!" She chuffed. "Talking. Your kind are good at that."

"I just want to know more about you and your people." Frederick could feel his tone growing more defensive. "Why the hostility?"

"You question why I would be angered?" She stood upright, stepping away from the tree trunk and beginning to pace energetically. "You're right, it's unthinkable that I should bear any grudge towards you and your kind. After all, the Temerians only cast us out of our home. The d'hoinne only hunt us to the brink of extinction at every turn. The vatt'ghern only defile our ancestral halls with their debauchery and filth. It's utterly unreasonable to be angered by such things!"

"I don't understand what you are talking about." Frederick said, trying to keep his voice from rising. "What are dwonn? What's a vatt-kern?"

"You don't even know the most common words of my people." Lauriel shook her head. "Ignorance as well as stupidity. Such is the way with the d'hoinne."

"Then teach me!" Frederick felt a knot of frustration rise in his throat. "I am not your enemy here. I want to learn about the ways of your people, to understand your culture. How can I do so if you won't speak with me?"

The Elf turned to glance at him, her eyes softening for just a moment before the gleam of ferocity return.

"No!" She shouted loudly enough for all present at the camp to hear. Frederick was all too aware of the many eyes now turning to the pair. Lauriel was undeterred, her voice remaining raised. "We cannot trust the vatt'ghern!"

The dark-haired Elf turned on her heel, darting away through the trees. Frederick took a step to follow her, but a small, delicate hand on his shoulder made him pause. He turned to find himself looking into the eyes of Eloena, the Elf's gaze sympathetic.

"Leave her be, Witcher." She said quietly. "She needs a moment to herself. Be assured, it's not you that she is angry with. She is only distressed because she knows what must come next."

"Next?" Frederick asked weakly, his gaze once more turning to the retreating Lauriel.

"Ialeth has one final request to make of you, and of Master Toril." Eloena's voice was heavy as she spoke.

"If we can help, we will." Frederick swore.

"We require a boat." The Elf explained. "A small one, fit to carry one person. Ten archers, good ones, and linen, a great deal of it. Have Master Toril bring these to the lake that lies at the heart of the lake, after sundown tomorrow. She will understand."

"It will be done, I promise." Frederick replied earnestly.

"Good." Eloena sighed in relief. "Now, you should return to your Masters, before you are missed. The last thing we need is the whole castle scouring the woods for you all."

Frederick nodded, gesturing to his friends. The gathered adepts all stood, nodding their farewells to Eloena before turning to leave. Slowly, the group filed out of the clearing, Frederick and Morold taking up the rear. As they walked, Morold turned to speak to his fellow Nightsaber.

"What was all that about, Frederick?" He gestured roughly in the direction where Lauriel had vanished into the woods.

"I don't know." The former Mage's apprentice sighed. "Just me not understanding something, I guess."

"Women are hard enough to understand at the best of times, my friend." Morold chuckled. "Even more so when they are not even the same species as us! Don't let it trouble you overly."

"Still, I wish there was something more I could do." Frederick chewed his lip as he stared down at the ground, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other. "They've lost so much, and still life continues to take from them..."

"We cannot do anything to change the way our kind has treated theirs, Frederick." Morold sympathised. "We can only control how we treat them, and focus on-"

He paused, prompting Frederick to glance at him. The adept has stopped moving, looking to their right, just over Frederick's shoulder. The young Nightsaber turned to follow the direction of his gaze.

Lauriel stood beside the trunk of a tree, half-hidden behind it, only a few steps away. She folded her hands in front of herself nervously, fingers twisting around one another as she turned over some troubling thought or another in her mind. Her deep, dark eyes looked at the adepts warily. As she stepped forward, Morold cleared his throat.

"I'll- uhh... just go catch up with the others..." With those short words, he was gone, leaving Frederick alone with the Elf.

"Do you truly mean what you said, that you want to help my people?" Lauriel asked, the tremble of something resembling anger, but also regret, lingering in her voice.

"Of course." Frederick focused on putting as much genuine honesty into the words as he could. "I meant every word. And I will do whatever I can for you, for Eloena, and for Ialeth."

At the last word, the young Elf flinched, but straightened quickly. A tear danced in the corner of her eye.

"Ialeth has always been there for me." She explained with a quiet voice. "She's almost all I have left of my family. Knowing that she'll leave so soon, and I cannot follow her.. it-"

Her voice hitched, her nose wrinkling as she fought back more tears. Suddenly, with a swiftness that caught Frederick unawares, the Elf lunged forwards, arms wrapping around the young Witcher adept as she pressed her face into his collarbone, a few sobs shaking their way through her entire delicate frame. Frederick froze for a moment, unsure of how to respond, before finally curling his arms around her, offering a few non-verbal sounds of comfort as her tears stained his shirt.

The young Nightsaber was startled by just how small the Elf truly was. Although he himself was no giant of a man, the woman in his arms was incredibly slight, dwarfed in his arms. A swell of emotion roiled within him, a sudden pressure to keep this delicate, elegant thing safe from the world, to do everything he could to help her. His heart pounded in his chest as he whispered comforts to her, his lips a hair's breadth from her ear.

"It's going to be alright, I promise." He whispered until her sobbing stilled, her tears slowing.

"Just- promise me you'll keep Ialeth safe, no matter what happens!" The Elf whispered hoarsely. "Until this is over, don't let anything happen to her, please!"

"I swear on my life, none of you will come to any harm." Frederick swore, meaning every last word.

Finally, all too soon for Frederick, the Elf broke contact, pulling herself out of his arms with a small sigh.

"I should return to the camp." She muttered. "Will I see you again?"

"I will return." Frederick promised. "You ave my word."

"Good."

Lauriel glanced down to her feet, then back at Frederick. Then, just as suddenly as she'd appeared, the Elf bolted, vanishing between the trees in seconds. Frederick, still standing where she'd left him, stood still as a statue for a few moments, before his mind finally caught up with his body. With a sigh, he leaned against the nearest tree, looking to the leaves above as his body and mind blurred with some strange, incomprehensible barrage of thoughts and emotions. Finally, after a few moments composing himself, the Nightsaber loped off in the rough direction of the castle.

~o~0~o~

The sun was setting, the day's heat rapidly dwindling, by the time Frederick managed to return to the forest. The rest of the school was occupied with their evening meal, all raucously chattering, singing and feasting in the Great Hall, which gave the Nightsaber the perfect opportunity to sneak out and find the Elves again. He'd already spoken with Toril, going over the necessary preparations, and had only to deliver her reply to the Elves, a task he had all too readily agreed to. Now, he slowly picked his way through the forest, seeking the clearing.

As the peace and quiet of the night closed in around him, he became aware of a subtle wrongness in the air. The forest was deathly still, suddenly lacking the lively quality it had once possessed. A troubling sensation in his heart, Frederick pressed on until he broke through the edge of the clearing, the scene that greeted him making his pulse race.

The clearing was abandoned. The campfire, still smoking, had had several handfuls of dirt swiftly thrown over it to douse the flames. Where the Elves' belongings had sat, the soil was churned up, as if everything had been scooped up in a hurry. Dozens of footprints littered the cleaning, some deep and clearly from an armoured boot.

Panic setting in, Frederick raced around the clearing, searching for any sign of the whereabouts of the Elves. Nothing remained. No weapons or, Frederick's stomach turned at the thought, blood, but also no discarded belongings, not even the faintest trace of a trail to follow. What had happened? Where were the Elves? Where was Lauriel?

As these frantic thoughts began to overwhelm the young adept, he swiftly became aware of another presence, close by. Turning slowly, Frederick's heart leapt as he caught sight of a shape moving towards the camp. Not an Elf, as he had hoped, but a Witcher. Frederick soon recognised the figure of Master Dirk, heading straight in the direction of the now abandoned clearing.

Frederick swallowed the knot of anxiety that clogged his throat. He could still clearly remember what the Wolf School Master had said, back during their first Signs class. The words echoed in his head.

"The king and his people pay us to go after whatever threatens their way of life. Won't be long before Elves start to fill that list. Pretty soon, Witchers will be taking on contracts on the Aen Seidhe, just another monster the Humans fear."

Frederick squashed the surge of worry that threatened to overtake his mind. He needed to focus for now. He couldn't let the Witcher find the Elves. Couldn't let him find Lauriel. He fought to cast out the mental image of Dirk using his Signcraft on the young she-Elf, but the thought persisted. Swallowing painfully, he shook his head to clear it. He knew what he had to do. He needed to get away from the clearing before he was spotted.

Keeping a tree between himself and the Witcher, the young Nightsaber began moving furtively through the forest, trying to put as much distance between himself and Dirk. Branches whipped at his face, while thorns ripped at his trousers. Every rustling leaf or snapping twig under his feet made him wince. While he'd seen Masters like Harlaw and Toril move effortlessly in the wilds with nary more than a whisper of sound following them, Frederick was a long way from that kind of skill. It wouldn't be long before he was spotted. He just needed to-

Just as he began processing that thought, his momentary lapse in focus betrayed him. His foot found a soft patch of mud, his ankle folding up under him. He managed to keep himself from yelping out loud, but his tumbling body sent a series of loud snaps and clatters echoing across the forest as he landed in a dense bush. He groaned as a few branches poked his sides and scratched his face, one scraping along the fresh scars on his cheek to summon forth a hiss of pain from the adept. As he lay there, a little dazed, he closed his eyes in resignation. There was no way Dirk hadn't heard that little cacophony.

"Hey!"

Sure enough, the Master barked out as he spotted the sprawling adept, sprinting over. Frederick noted with more than a little envy how quietly the Witcher managed to move. As Dirk raced up next to the adept, he dropped to a knee, offering a hand to help Frederick into a sitting position.

"What are you doing out here?" The Master asked.

"Uhh..." Frederick's mind raced as he rubbed his head, feeling the tacky wetness of blood seeping from the injury on his cheek. Sudden inspiration seized him. "I was out looking for some herbs."

"Herbs?" Dirk's brow rose inquisitively.

"For my wounds." Frederick pointed to where the Fiend had clawed his face open back on his first hunt. "The potions are working, but they don't do anything about the pain. I'd hoped to find some burdock root to chew on, take the edge off the pain."

"Uh-huh." It was a poor lie, and Frederick could see in Dirk's eyes that he thought so, too. Still, the Witcher chose not to question it any further. "So I guess you don't know about the Elves that were sighted here earlier then? That abandoned camp back there?"

Frederick glanced in the direction that Dirk pointed with his thumb, making a show of looking puzzled. The Master had almost certainly seen through him, but he was committed now.

"Elves? Here?" He asked. "Can't say that I've seen any."

Dirk sighed, lowering his head.

"I'm not their enemy. I just want to help them." He explained.

Frederick wanted to believe him. He wanted to be able to trust the Master. He seemed honourable, at least for a Witcher. But those words, the thought of the entire school hunting down and slaughtering Lauriel and her kin, stayed him from telling the Master any of the truth. Finally, admitting defeat, Dirk looked the adept straight in the eye.

"If you see them, or learn anything about what's happened to them, I need you to tell me right away, okay?"

"Of course, Master Dirk." Frederick replied stonily, plagued by twinges of guilt. "I'll keep an eye out for anything amiss in the forest."

"See that you do." Dirk sighed. "In the meantime, you'd better get back to hunting for your herbs."

With that, the Witcher quietly stood, turning on his heel to leave. Frederick, still sitting in the dirt where he'd fallen, sagged as he released a long, weary sigh. He waited just a few moments, until he was certain that the Witcher had left, then quickly scrambled to his feet, dusting himself off. Looking about, he made a decision. If other Witchers were looking for the Elves, then it was unlikely that they'd been found and captured. Frederick had to track them down, and fast. He closed his eyes, focusing his mind. Harlaw's training in Survival class bubbled up in his mind, lessons on tracking and reading the forest, chasing down prey. Slowly, he opened his eyes, scanning the woodlands around him. With a surge of hope, he spotted something, a broken piece of bark on a nearby tree. He walked up to it, glancing around, then finally upwards, his heart surging. There, far above in the forest's canopy, hung a tiny wooden trinket, one of Eloena's charms she'd crafted to protect herself from curses. Looking further along, he spotted another, almost invisible among the leaves unless you knew what to look for. A trail to follow.

Hope surging in his heart, darkness closing in around him, Frederick plunged deeper into the forest, hoping he'd be able to keep up his pursuit even once the sunlight was completely gone. Behind him, unseen by the adept, Master Dirk watched the Nightsaber leave, shaking his head wearily.


End file.
